Black Shadow, Golden Sun
by AKAtheCentimetre
Summary: Gwydion, Prince of Don, and Achren, once queen of the Land of Death. Their beginnings, their meeting, their lives. Their hate, and their love. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1: A Morning Adventure

_Hey ppl! Glad you happened to stumble upon my first fanfic ever, featuring the totally awesome Prydain Chronicles! Anyways, I couple of things to say before I get on with it: for those who have read the books (and I sincerly hope you have, otherwise this won't make much sense at all), this story features Gwydion and Achren, focusing on their lives both before and during the Chronicles. And yes, like I said in my bio, I think this will eventually be a Gwydion/Achren pairing. Now, after reading the books, I understand that this might make people freak out - but I got the idea from lots of clues in the books (which I'll try to sneak in here and there), as well as references in the _Mabinogion. _So, please bear with me! And reviews would be totally awesome!_

**DISCLAIMER: **Gwydion, Achren, and the Chronicles of Prydain belong to Lloyd Alexander (although I wouldn't mind stealing Gwydion. Just for a while, you understand). Original characters (Matron, captain of the guard, etc.) are mine.

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Black Shadow, Golden Sun

**Chapter 1: A Morning Adventure**

The white city of Caer Dathyl gleamed in the morning sun, light catching in drops of dew amongst the hemlock groves. Guards lined the city's walls, leaning on tall spears as they gnawed on hunks of soft bread, laughing and guffawing cheerfully in small groups. It was early enough that not many people walked in the wide streets - only the snapping of the golden banners could be heard throughout the city's fortress.

In a small room near the back of the citadel, and old man, his back hunched over like a sagging tree branch, mumbled endlessly through his thick white beard, his drooping eyes blearily focused on a large book in his lap. Every so often, he would turn a page and then drone on, sneezing through clouds of dust which rose from the tome's pages. Several feet in front of the old man, sitting on a wooden bench, was a boy. He crouched over a small wooden table, a quill scratching quietly on a piece of parchment before him.

The boy was only eleven or twelve years old - but he seemed much older because of his unusual height. His slender body was encased in soft leather pants, high laced boots, and a large white shirt with spacious sleeves, hanging bunched up below his elbows. His long light-brown hair was gathered in a loose ponytail at the base of his head, allowing several pieces of hair to fall into his startlingly green eyes. Those eyes were deep and filled with a knowing wisdom - a stranger would have seen an adult in their depths. He moved with a certain air of strength and grace - his thin limbs were merely bunches of corded muscles, and not a drop of ink fell from his quill to mar the neat lines of writing on his paper as he wrote, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

The scratching of the boy's quill paused as a deep, grunting sound filled the small room. Looking up, the boy saw the old man slumped over the enormous book, peaceful snores escaping his bushy mouth. The boy glanced unhurriedly at the room's handsome wooden door, longing evident in his gaze. He looked furtively back at the teacher, then quietly put down his quill and stood, sliding his feet quickly and silently towards the door. Glancing back just once more, the lad lifted the latch and slipped out, closing the door carefully behind him. Emerging out into a long corridor, he lifted a long sheathed dagger that had been resting neatly against the wall and buckled it to his broad belt. Then the boy set off into the castle.

He made his way down several narrow, winding stone staircases, heading deeper into the fortress, moving with the grace of a forest wolf. Finally, his sharp green eyes peeked around a doorway into a large, warm room filled with clouds of moist steam. Several women bustled around tables and domed earthen ovens, unloading warm loaves of bread, as well as slices of cooked fish and meat. Piles of fruit lay in finely woven baskets on the tables. The fresh loaves of bread made the boy's stomach grumble, for he had not eaten that morning, having gone straight to his lesson with the old bard as soon as he had woken. Not that he had needed to go to the lesson in the first place - he had memorized the great history volume long ago.

Suddenly, a plump woman with dark hair and wearing an apron, sweating slightly in the warm kitchen, looked up and saw the boy in the doorway. She wiped her brow with a large, capable hand and chuckled heartily, revealing a deep, broad voice. "Now then, don'tcha goo doin' tha', young prince," she admonished, waggling a thick finger. "One dae I shall look up and yon sneakin' about of yourn'll fair put me away."

The boy - the prince - stepped down into the room with a small grin on his face, giving a short bow of respect to the much older woman. "I'm very sorry, Matron. I shall refrain from sneaking in the future."

"Ooh, no, ye shall not," the Matron laughed. "I know you and yourn clever ways." Her eyes narrowed playfully, and she put her hands on her wide hips as the prince walked further into the kitchen, deftly dodging other scurrying women. "Wha does the prince want in 'ere, anyhoo?" she asked.

"Nothing," the boy replied innocently, green eyes wide and fixed on the Matron, even as his feet shuffled him closer to the piles of warm bread.

Quick as a flash, his hand shot out and grabbed the nearest loaf, and just as quickly he spun about and rushed back to the doorway. There he stopped and turned back, a huge grin on his face, and gave a deep bow to the bellowing Matron, flourishing his arms about in a most theatrical manner. "My thanks!" he called out gaily - and then he turned and ran.

"You run your litt' legs righ' back 'ere, Prince Gwydion!" the Matron yelled - but even as her voice faded, the boy could hear the laughter in her voice.

Chuckling fondly to himself, the young Gwydion made his way out of the castle and through the city, past the hemlock groves and the Hall of Bards to the city walls. There, he climbed a flight a stone stairs and greeted the company of guards above the gate, each of whom gave him a deep bow - although it was not strictly necessary, for they had all been friends with the prince since Gwydion had been an infant. He could converse and tell jokes just as well as any of them, and they all shared the loaf of bread he had brought under the warm sun. About an hour passed in this pleasurable manner, until the sudden, terribly loud whinny of a horse exploded in the city below.

Gwydion sat straight upright from where he had been leaning against the wall. "What was that?" he asked loudly - he had to almost shout to be heard above the bellowing of the unseen animal, which only grew in volume. Several guards, looking slightly unnerved themselves, leaned cautiously over the wall to look down at the city below them, where other, terrified human shrieks began to join in the din.

One of the guards, the gruff, forty-year-old captain of the small troop, grunted in disgust. "That fool Morgrint," he growled. "Thinks he can tame a wild mare from the mountains, can he? Well," he said, pointing down into the streets, "There's the proof he can't. The poor beast's gone mad." The captain sighed, then hefted his spear and started towards the descending stone stairs. "We'll have to take care of it."

Something in the heaviness of the captain's tone made Gwydion scramble to his feet. "Are you going to kill her?" he asked tremulously.

"It's the only way to deal with a wild animal like that."

Gwydion bit his lip, then suddenly rushed past the captain and down the stairs. "Wait here!" he called back over his shoulder, ignoring the startled protests behind him. Once he reached the bottom, Gwydion dashed down the street towards the castle. He didn't have to go very far, for a wooden door from a building looking onto the street suddenly flew outwards and landed with a huge crash in the street, sending several women and their children scattering in all directions, crying out in shock. Gwydion skidded to a halt, almost tumbling over his own feet - and an instant later, the mare stood over him.

She was beautiful - that was the first and everlasting impression the crouching boy had. Her white coat was marred with dirt and blood from the marks of numerous beatings, but it still shone brightly, and her mane gleamed the color of solid gold. The mare was still young - barely a year old, her legs under her full-grown body still thin and slightly knock-kneed. In contrast to her beauty, however, her chocolate brown eyes burned with a feverish madness. Foam was gathered along her neck, and her yellow-white teeth were fiercely bared.

Gwydion had but a moment to stare at her, wide-eyed, before he had to dive out of the way of the mare's flying hooves, rolling in the dirt as they plunged to the ground, shaking his teeth in his mouth. The mare's frenzied bellowing filled his ears. Once he had rolled far enough away, Gwydion scrambled to his feet and faced the nervously prancing horse, breathing heavily as he held out his thin hands in front of him. He never once even contemplated taking out the dagger at his hip, for it would only make the animal more afraid. The boy slowly drew the back of one hand across his cheek to draw off some of the dirt smudged there, never taking his bright green eyes off the mare, his hair falling haphazardly into his face.

The mare seemed to quiet slightly under the prince's intense stare, her hooves lifting only slightly off the ground as she moved. Gwydion slowly opened his mouth. "It's all right," he murmured softly, still never shifting his gaze. The white horse stared at him. Very slowly, Gwydion took one step forward. It was the wrong thing to do.

The mare whinnied in sudden terror, then suddenly charged forward, snorting, eliciting screams from bystanding women. Gwydion had no time to think or react - a split second later, the horse's lowered head rammed into the boy's midriff, and he found himself flipped forward onto the mare's back, letting out a cry of shock. The mare then bucked, and the sudden movement threw Gwydion off her back entirely - he flew several feet through the air and landed heavily on his left side. Gwydion heard a few sharp, cracking noises, and gasped faintly as pain flared along his side. He was vaguely aware of the horrified cursing from the guards above him on the wall as he dazedly stumbled to his feet, left arm clenched protectively across his chest. The bystanders in the street, having grown in number, watched him anxiously, but still none of them dared come near.

Gwydion wavered slightly on his feet, but he did not cease to stare at the bucking mare, green eyes determined. The prince glanced quickly about him for a moment, and suddenly saw a basket of fruit pieces clutched in the arms of one of the young mothers clustered at the edge of the street. Gwydion glanced at the white horse cautiously, then strode away, over to the woman with the basket. Murmuring a swift apology, the prince grabbed two pieces of apple with his free arm and then turned back to the white horse, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Several other men in the street had, meanwhile, tried to catch the mare of pin her into a corner, but she had driven all of them away with small charges and loud bellows.

Once again, as if feeling Gwydion's gaze, the mare turned to regard the boy - but this time, she was distracted by the sight of a piece of apple reached towards her in Gwydion's hand. Arm outstretched to its fullest extent with the apple on the flat palm of his hand, Gwydion came slowly towards her, his shuffling feet making hardly a sound. The mare gazed at him nervously, then her eyes shifted to the apple. She took a few short steps forward - Gwydion stopped moving - and then she stretched out her neck and snatched the apple piece from Gwydion's hand, dancing away as she chomped at it ravenously. Gwydion smiled, then held out the other piece for her to see in his right hand. As soon as the horse's eyes were fixed upon it, the boy closed his fist, hiding the fruit from view.

The mare nickered quietly, then took a few hesitant steps forward and nudged the boy's closed fist. Frustrated when Gwydion did not open his hand, her eyes narrowed. Lunging forward viciously, her teeth bit down hard on Gwydion's knuckle. Gwydion struggled to not flinch as the white mare turned her head away and a thick stream of blood began to drip from his hand. Several in the large watching crowd gasped. Swallowing his pain, Gwydion once again opened his fist, allowed the mare to see the fruit, and then closed his hand again.

Slowly and nervously, the horse once again walked up and nudged his hand. This time, Gwydion slowly drew his hand towards himself - and the mare followed. Soon, his hand was only a few inches from the arm folded across his burning chest. Gwydion saw, which a great surge of joy, that the mare's brown eyes were calm. She gazed at him a moment, then lightly nudged the boy's hand, nibbling at his fingers with her velvety lips. Gwydion grinned, sweat beading his forehead from his exertions, and then gladly opened his hand. The mare daintily took the fruit piece from his palm, and then nudged Gwydion's face with her own. Laughing, Gwydion reached up with his good arm and stroked her glistening white neck. She snorted and leaned her head against him, her legs trembling with fatigue.

It was then, with the added weight suddenly pressed on him, that Gwydion's chest erupted and he was overwhelmed by the pain coursing through his body. He cried out and fell backwards, both hands now clutching his left side, as the white horse whinnied in panic above him. The last thing he was aware of before the pain engulfed him completely was the gruff, anxious face of the captain of the guard staring down at him.

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"Well, m'lud," a warm, friendly man's voice said, swimming eerily in Gwydion's ears. "That was quite some adventure you had, eh?" 

Gwydion opened his hazy eyes to see a ceiling of white stone, and a wrinkled old face staring at him from the collar of a richly embroidered tunic. It was the healer of the castle, he realized. Why would he need a healer? As if to answer his question, a sharp stab of pain prickled his left side. Groaning and reaching for it, he found his chest was swathed in thick white bandages. "What's wrong?" he asked raspily, voice harsh from thirst.

"Well, it seems you broke a few ribs when that mare threw you, my Lord," came the gruff, warm voice of the captain of the guard - a moment later, his face swam into view as well. "Poor animal was quite distraught when you went out and we tried to take ye up to the castle. Followed us all the way, she did."

"Where is she?"

"In the royal stables, awaiting the pleasure of your next 'trainin' session'," the captain chuckled.

Gwydion felt very tired. His exhaustion made his yawn, and his eyes drooped contentedly with the news that the beautiful white horse was safe. He was so tired, he didn't even see the swooping black shapes outside the window, small specks in the bright blue sky. "What's her name?" he whispered.

"Who, my Lord?"

"The mare."

The captain smiled. He, too, did not see the black, twisted forms in the sky. "Hear tell from a lady in the street the mare's name is Melyngar."

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Whee! End of first chapter! R&R svp! **


	2. Chapter 2: Blood in Annuvin

Yay! Reviews! Reviews make me happy. More reviews make me write faster. (hint hint!)

I'm glad people like this story so far! Prydain is definitely my favorite fantasy series ever, and there deserves to be more good fanfiction based on it. So, I'm gonna try to throw in my bit.

**Angharad** – thanks! Ooer, you've got your own ideas. Now I've got to watch out and make sure I don't displease, lol!

**CompanionWanderer** – thanks so much for the doctor thing! I'm still kicking myself. Yeah, when I first thought of the pairing, it weirded me out a little bit too – but then I actually thought it through, and I realized that there were a TON of loose ends. So, here's my solution!

**Sakura-chan79** – thanks! Glad you like it! And, here's more.

**Disclaimer:** it's not mine. I wish it was. Lloyd Alexander is the lucky dog.

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**Black Shadow, Golden Sun**

**Chapter 2: Blood in Annuvin**

The great black birds of Annuvin screamed southwest, wind whistling over their great outstretched wings. Their cruel beaks sliced the air, and their black eyes held no warmth – only cold and death.

At length, the three huge creatures flew over earth that was black and cracked, split by jagged boulders and hills of stone. Before them loomed a black castle containing several dark buildings, from which other of their brethren screamed in iron cages, beating their wings against the walls of their prisons in rage. Several more whirled to and fro into the surrounding countryside, carrying out mission for their master as they had done for generations.

It had been ten years since the birds had seen the conquest of a wild horse by a young boy, in a city many leagues away.

The three gwythaints returning from patrol in the enemy's territory glided silently down towards the largest and most impressive building of all, which was guarded by silent sentinels, their dead flesh peeling away from the white skeletons. They were alive, but yet dead – their eyes saw nothing except darkness and chaos. The Cauldron-born made no sound as the gwythaints soared between them in through the open doors of the long hall. At the end of the hall, on a cold black stone throne, sat a woman.

At first glance, she seemed young – one would have to look closely at the silver streaks in her black hair and only then think differently. Yet her face was soft and beautiful, the refined oval shape complimenting her pale skin, interrupted by the heavy rouge on her lips. Both her luxurious gown and her eyes were black, and in her bound-up hair rested an iron crown, its sharp points making it seem almost as if the woman had horns. Despite her beauty, her expression was cruel and arrogant – her eyes were cold and mocking. She sat on the throne, reading a heavy scroll which rested in her lap.

Hearing the flapping wings of the gwythaints coming down towards her, the woman looked up, then wrinkled her brow in an unmistakable feeling of disgust. In another moment, the great birds alighted on the stone floor below the throne. The largest bird hopped forward, then began a series of strange cackles and clicks coming from its throat, bobbing its head towards the woman as it screeched. The woman seemed to listen intently for a few minutes, until the bird finished and fell silent.

With hooded eyes, the woman settled herself back against her throne, then jerked her head. The gwythaints screamed and took flight, vanishing to whence they had come. The woman sat in silence for some moments, then turned her head regally to the side, peering into a dark alcove. "You were listening, I take it?" her voice was smooth and alluring to the ear.

A dark shape showed itself from one corner of the hall – a short man, cloaked in black, with a curiously misshapen, sallow face. His hands jerked spasmodically by his sides as he advanced towards the throne. "But of course," he replied, his words slimy and sounding unwholesome as he limped awkwardly across the floor, which was inlaid with carvings of twisted forms. "Shape-shifting does have its advantages."

The woman sighed in angry exasperation, throwing the scroll from her as she stood, heedless of the heavy paper striking the ground with a loud thud. "Is that your intention, Arawn?" she demanded. "To be squashed like an insignificant beetle because you are so careless?"

The man shrank back, fear evident in his eyes. "I apologize, my Queen," he said tremulously, shaking hands coming to meeting point clutched across his thin chest. "I did not think, Achren – "

"Of course you didn't," the queen, Achren, retorted angrily, tossing her head in barely concealed rage. "When I chose you as my consort, I expected you to remedy these mistakes."

"Yes, my Queen," Arawn mumbled, bowing frantically several times. Achren turned away in dismissal, missing the sudden hatred which suddenly bloomed across the consort's face.

"Very well," Achren sighed, reseating herself on the throne with a lazy sigh. "What are we going to do about these three young noble upstarts who about to begin their voyage?"

"Yessss," Arawn hissed, standing up straight – or as straight as he could, with his hunched back – and scuttling closer to the queen. "The three young lords of Caer Dathyl will be beginning their journey soon. The two-year journey to enter manhood," he spat disdainfully. "Yet another of those foolish Don customs."

"Aye," Achren murmured, picking up her scroll and reading a few lines, bored. "Tell me of them."

A slight grin appeared on Arawn's face, and he rubbed his white hands together, back hunching even further. "Yes, my lady."

The first and oldest," he said loudly, "Is Morgant of Madoc, of twenty-two years. He is renowned for his skill in battle, and for his icy fearlessness. He cares not for revelry or frivolous times, and is keen to improve his own future. Only to his friends is he anything close to civil, and he treats all others with the cold indifference he does his enemies before he slaughters them." Arawn cleared his throat. "He should be easy to corrupt, my lady – the temptation of power shall seduce him, I am sure of it."

When Achren did not answer, Arawn blinked his hooded eyes and continued nervously. "The third, and the youngest, is Pryderi son of Pwyll, from the northern domains, of a mere nineteen years. He is almost the opposite of Morgant from what I hear – although his skills are formidable, he is loud, boisterous – many would say arrogant. He partakes often in useless sport with his servants by hunting in the forests near his home, and luxuriates in the comfort of his father's realm."

Achren turned her head slightly, though her eyes did not leave the scroll in her hand. "You skipped the second."

"Ah," Arawn said in a hushed tone. "That is because he is the most interesting."

Arawn had the queen's full attention now, for she had detected something strange in Arawn's tone – could it have been… fear? "Tell me."

"It is Gwydion, son of Math, the Prince of Don."

Achren's eyes narrowed. "Impossible," she murmured. "I remember when we received the news of his birth, and the death of his mother in bringing about his birth. The boy cannot be that old already."

"I assure you, my Queen, he is of twenty-one years as of last week. And a formidable young man. The time has certainly flown, has it not?" Arawn said, a faint, evil chuckle in his voice.

Achren's eyes narrowed even further. "Well, what is there to fear from a spoiled boy? Yes," she said as Arawn looked at her in surprise, "I can tell that you fear him. Do not forget, Arawn, your skills and knowledge are no match for mine."

Arawn coughed once into a white hand, as if seeming embarrassed, then resumed his narrative. "The boy received his emblem of Don a few days ago. He is strong of body, and sound of mind. He has excelled at his studies since his youth, and his noble bearing is said to exceed even his father's. He even tamed a wild horse from the Eagle Mountains when he had barely eleven years. He has shown a dedicated sense of duty, never wavering from his path as eventual heir to the House of Don." Arawn paused. "I must confess, my Queen, that in all the present information I have of him, I have found no weakness. He will be the ringleader of their little group when they leave, of that you can be sure."

Achren stood sharply and paced, her dress swishing around her as she walked. "We must find some way to break them up. When do they leave?"

"Three days."

"No doubt they will render visit to that fool enchanter Dallben," Achren hissed, her tone filled with a terrible malice. "But after that, who knows where they will go?"

She stood in silence a few moments, then turned to her consort. "Go, Arawn. Take a party of thirty Huntsmen and seek them out. But," she quickly continued, seeing the gleeful look on Arawn's face, "Do not kill them. You shall talk to them," Achren continued lightly. "You shall use the magical skills I used you, and you shall tempt them. Offer power to the prince of Madoc, and riches to the son of Pwyll. As for the prince of Don…" here her voice trailed away, and she stared off into the distance, deep in thought. "Watch his reactions to your other offers. If he does not yield, then use your magic." She whirled on Arawn, face eschewed in deep anger. "Take control of him. We cannot allow him to go free, he is of too great an importance."

"What shall I do once I have lured them into my nets, my lady?" Arawn asked, bowing so deep he was bent nearly double, his forehead perspiring even in the freezing cold room.

Achren gazed coolly at her consort, taking pleasure in the servitude he was so willingly showing. It made her simmer with pride – she was a queen, the most feared in all Prydain, and soon to be mistress of all of it as well. Annuvin was her kingdom. She was wearing her crown, her crown by right.

She smiled wickedly, revealing her sharp, gleaming white teeth. "You shall bring them to me," she said menacingly. "I shall be waiting for you in the Forest of Idris." She took a few gentle steps forward and lifted Arawn's head so he was looking her in the eye. "You will not fail me, will you?" she purred.

Arawn's thin lips lifted in a cold, humorless grin. Later, after she had bedded him and he was asleep, Achren found herself laughing aloud as the Cauldron-born ripped apart a screaming prisoner in front of her and the warm blood spread over the cold ground, the cold wind blowing into her like a knife.

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Well, there's chapter 2! It's shorter, I know, but I hope it's good… reviews make me work faster, remember!**


	3. Chapter 3: The Price of Knowledge

Ok, so here's the third chapter! I'm glad people like this so far; I'll try to keep it up – thanks to all my reviewers! First fanfic, I was kinda nervous…

**Sakura-chan79** – Thanks again!

**CompanionWanderer** – I know, it's such a shame that there's so little Prydain fanfiction! Not that all of it would be excellent, but the series deserves to be appreciated online a lot more than it is. Funny, that you think it's a twist to have Arawn be subservient – I always had that impression, as soon as I learned Arawn had betrayed her. It just seemed to make sense in my head, in the way he has to resort to trickery and not brute strength in every encounter the reader has with him. Thanks for your review!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Meh.

Here goes!

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Black Shadow, Golden Sun

**Chapter 3: The Price of Knowledge**

The three horses made their way quietly through the bracken dotting the meadow, their hooves making hardly a sound in the soft ground, the summer grass whispering as it swished against their flanks. Overhead, the sun hung low in the sky, turning the horizon into a myriad of orange and red hues. One of the horses nickered, tossing its head slightly, and its rider leaned forward smoothly to calm him.

The first rider rode quickly and confidently, his golden head and blue eyes held high and proudly. Although the group had been riding from Caer Dathyl for several days, and the young men were obviously headed into deeper wildernesses, his clothing was rich and embroidered with gold. At his side hung a long sword, encased in silver and girded to a belt of golden links. His chestnut stallion was strong and carried itself proudly as well, stretching its foreleg out far away from its body with every step of its canter.

The second rider leaned back up from where he had patted his skittish stallion's neck, shaking his hair out of his eyes. His raven locks were the same color as his steed, and his clothing was also black, though not as rich as the first young man's. Everything about him seemed dark – his attire, his eyes; even his long sword, with one of his hands resting lightly on the hilt as he controlled his steed with the other, was sheathed in black metal. Delicate silver links held a warm dark green cloak across his shoulders, and cold, ruthless intelligence burned from his pale face.

The third rider, seated on a tall white mare with a golden mane and tail, seemed to be one with his steed, so fluid were his movements. Unlike his companions, his clothing was simple, practical, and unadorned. He bore no ornament or any symbol of rank but for a slender gold chain hanging around his neck, on the end of which dangled a small golden sun-shaped disk, thin rays of gold reaching out from a perfect circle. His long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail at the base of his skull, and a sword in a dull red sheath was girded to his belt, lines of muted silver winding around the hilt. He guided his mare with a firm but gentle hand, and his green eyes darted smoothly about him, taking in all his surroundings. His whole bearing radiated a quiet, calm strength.

The three young men rode south in the falling dusk, their war horses neither slowing nor stopping. The two horses in front were bathed in sweat, but the white mare seemed to revel in the cooling nighttime air, tossing her mane and tail and slightly picking up her pace. Soon she passed the black stallion, as the raven-haired young man pressed his lips together in a thin smile. As the mare gained on the chestnut stallion in the lead, the golden-haired rider looked back and shouted a quick, bellowing laugh. "Oh no you don't, Gwydion!" he yelled. "Your wild filly cannot beat me!"

The green-eyed young man grinned. "Try it then!" and with that, he let slip a few inches of his reins and the white mare charged ahead of the chestnut stallion, head lowered as if in a deadly race. The green-eyed one laughed heartily as he swept by the golden-haired man, amused by the stream of curses emitting from his friend's mouth. Behind the two competitors, the silent black-haired youth also spurred his stallion to a greater speed.

The trio rushed through the remainder of the meadow, then plunged into a section of woods. The forest underneath the trees was dark and gloomy, with only small shafts of soft golden light breaking through the canopy of leaves. A few moments later, the companions emerged from the woods, and the rider on the white mare slowed her to a gentle trot, for now they traveled across a pebbly river bank. In front of the slowing riders lay a wide river, its deep waters running grey in the dusk. Across the waters lay a wide expanse of forest, looming close to the bank.

The black-haired young man pulled his mount to a halt and dismounted with a grunt, pulling down his cloak after him, as it had snagged on his saddle. The other two travelers turned their horses back and also dismounted. "Had enough already, Morgant?" the golden-haired youth said, seeming in good humor.

"Aye," the young Morgant said. "Enough of you two and your foolish games. You should know better, Pryderi."

"Oh, come now," the golden-haired Pryderi said jovially. "What is the harm in it? Besides, I seem to recall I did not start the race. That would have been you, Gwydion," he said, turning and waving a gloved hand carelessly in the green-eyed youth's direction.

Gwydion chuckled quietly, patting Melyngar's steaming flanks. "Aye, that it was. And you are probably right, Morgant," he said, nodding in the dark man's direction, "But if any being wanted to attack us, they would have done so long ago, with all the racket we've been making."

Morgant only grunted and did not answer as Pryderi pulled a bundle of blankets down from where they had rested behind his saddle. "Ah, well – we cannot make it to Caer Dallben this night anyway, even if we wanted to," Pryderi sighed, his voice holding a tinge of disappointment. "Come, let us rest."

Gwydion paused, a slight frown on his face. "No, we should cross now. It will save us the possibility of a high tide tomorrow morning – the river is at its lowest point at this moment."

"Certainly not," Pryderi huffed good-naturedly. "Go to sleep sopping wet, as well as on hard tree roots? Spare me the torture."

"Then at least let us return to the forest's edge on this side. That way we will not be seen by any spying gwythaints."

Unable to dispute that logic, Pryderi grabbed his stallion's reins and marched back towards the trees, his mount following, its proud head drooped in exhaustion. Morgant followed silently, his cloak flowing about him. Gwydion took one more, look at the opposite bank, his gaze not hiding a great excitement and longing. Turning away with a restless sigh, he led Melyngar towards the safety of the trees. The mare followed docilely, no trace of her wild violence left in her except her unusual stamina and strength.

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The next morning, the three young men rose early and crossed the luckily calm river, taking off most of their garments and holding them above their heads, away from the neck-deep waters. Melyngar followed Gwydion instantly, plunging into the water and emerging dripping on the other side, but the other steeds needed some cajoling to get them into the stream. Once safely on the other side, the companions spent a while drying themselves and their saddles in the warm sun, then set off south through the woods, excitement evident even on Morgant's usually cold face – for ever since they had been young boys, they had longed to meet the famous enchanter Dallben, of which so much had been sung in the bards' tales back in the distant Caer Dathyl.

The woods were warm and welcoming in the summer heat, and the youths could hear the twittering of birds and the calls of small animals in the trees as the rode. Gwydion, whose eyes and hearing were sharper than most, picked out a herd of deer grazing off leaves in a sheltered grove. Shortly before noon, they rounded a turn in the forest path, the horses' hooves rustling quietly in the leaves beneath them, and saw the forest melting away to reveal a beautiful orchard, the trees' branches heavy with fruit of all kinds. There was a homely-looking barn also, from which an ox called softly – it was echoed a moment later by a large white pig in a wooden enclosure not far away. To the right of the orchard was a thatched hut, a tendril of smoke rising from an earthen chimney. A stout middle-aged man, his head as smooth and bald as an egg, stood in the doorway.

Recognizing the importance of the moment, Pryderi and Morgant drew their steeds back behind Gwydion and Melyngar, allowing the Prince of Don to ride forward first. They remained in that triangular formation as they exited the forest and bore down on the homestead. The bald man stepped out of the doorway, a broad grin creasing his face until his crinkled eyes were lost in his cheeks, as the companions halted in front of the hut and dismounted.

Pryderi gazed at the beautiful tranquility of the farm in wonder, and a twinkle of appreciation could also be seen in Morgant's dark eyes. Gwydion, however, did not need to look again – he had already taken in the scene in exacting detail as soon as he had seen it from the forest. Instead, he brought the reins over Melyngar's head and turned to bow deeply to the old farmer – a gesture which the other two quickly copied. "Greetings, Coll son of Collfrewr," Gwydion said respectfully, straightening again and looking the farmer in the eye. "We have journeyed far to meet with the enchanter Dallben, and beg his favor."

Coll laughed heartily, sounding like a cheerful bear. "Well, now," he said happily, "There's politeness for you. I've never seen you before in my life, and here you know my name and treat me like a king." Coll stuck out a sturdy hand from Gwydion to grasp. "Though, in truth," he continued more seriously, "There is no need to bow to me, Prince of Don. I am the one who should be bowing to you."

"I doubt that is true, from what I have heard of your deeds," Gwydion said, grinning and clasping the hand the farmer offered. "May I introduce my companions," he said, turning to gesture behind him. "Pryderi son of Pwyll from the Northern Domains, and Morgant Prince of Madoc."

"Aye – welcome, welcome to you all," Coll grinned. "Come, please enter: you can leave your steeds here, I shall take them to the stable in good time." As the young men thanked him, Coll nudged Gwydion with an elbow as he was about to enter the dwelling. "By the way," Coll whispered, "Don't expect much of the old boy – not even wakefulness. I'm afraid you caught him right in the middle of his morning 'meditation'." Chuckling, Coll trudged off towards the stables, leading the three horses along in his wake.

However, the young men did not even have to enter to see what he meant – suddenly from within the hut came the thudding of a walking staff against the ground, and an old robed man, his back hunched over and his face lost in clouds of white beard, tottered out of the doorway. Gwydion looked into the old man's eyes, and the sharp, clear blue of the sky peered back at him through wrinkled of folded brown skin. Dallben halted just outside the door, blinking as the three travelers hastily bowed again.

"Enough of that," he said kindly, waving his arm flippantly to show they could rise. "I've seen too many bows in my years." His eyes seemed to pierce Gwydion through – he could not look away from the eyes, for indeed the enchanter was so old they seemed to be the only living parts of him. Dallben stared at each of them in turn, making Pryderi sweat slightly with the intensity of his gaze. He lingered a long time on Morgant, then looked back at Gwydion, lids flickering at the sight of the golden sun resting against the prince's chest between the folds of his shirt. Dallben lifted his arm then, and beckoned to Gwydion. The Prince followed him into the hut without hesitation, leaving the other two behind in the sun.

It was dark and cool in the hut, and Gwydion blinked until his eyes adjusted as Dallben seated himself on a bench behind a wooden table. Gwydion saw with a brief flash of excitement that a huge book lay close by the enchanter's right hand – the ornate lettering on its cover said _The Book of Three._

Dallben noticed the direction of the prince's gaze. "Yes, that is the famous _Book of Three_," he whispered. "Do you know what is inside of it, Prince of Don?"

Gwydion averted his gaze, instead looking at the enchanter. "It probably isn't my business to know."

"On the contrary," Dallben said gruffly. "You are the only one who has a right to know." He stared at Gwydion, his gaze searching the young man's face and green eyes. "Do you know who you are?" he suddenly asked.

Gwydion frowned slightly at the seemingly random question. "I am Gwydion, son of Math…"

"Yes," Dallben interrupted, not unkindly. "But you are more than that."

He waved a hand towards the wall of the hut, where Gwydion saw a large piece of parchment hung. It was entitled _The House of Don_, and thin curved lines of black ink crisscrossed its surface, connecting names and dates, births, deaths, and marriages. He was, Gwydion realized, staring at the entire history of his House. Squinting in the gloom, the prince thought he could almost make out his own name at the bottom of the parchment. His name stood alone. He looked back at Dallben, confusion filling his gaze. "I do not understand."

"You are the Prince of Don," Dallben said softly. "Do you understand what that means?"

"I thought I did," Gwydion replied, just as quietly. "But the way you say this…" he frowned. "I now realize there is something more."

Dallben's eyes gleamed with pride. "Yes. You see before you," he said, waving his stick at the parchment, "The whole history of the most powerful family in all Prydain. They were the ones who saved this country from destruction, and they are the guardians of _every single person_ in Prydain." The old man's voice was filled with a strange reverence and power. "They are the keepers of all the ancient knowledge, and they came from over the sea from a magical country which no mortal man has seen. They are the ones who determine the survival or destruction of this land, and all the beings in it." Dallben's eyes were bright. "So," he said quietly. "What does that make you, Prince of Don?"

Gwydion stared, and the importance of what the old man had said suddenly seemed to weigh upon him as if the entire world had just fallen upon his shoulders – which in a way, it had. He felt heavy, as though it would need all of his formidable strength to move. He bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes. The glint of the symbol around his neck seemed to mock him, saying _Can you do this? Can you do it?_

Dallben's eyes seemed to soften at the sight of the young man who had just barely left boyhood, remembering a time when he, too, had left the world of youth. "Come," he said kindly, gesturing to the bench beside him, "Sit with me, and we shall talk." As he said this, he drew _The Book of Three_ towards him and opened it to the middle. Gwydion raised his head, steeled himself, and then walked quickly over to seat himself next to the enchanter, staring unabashedly at the pages of the huge book.

"This book contains the knowledge of the past, the present…and the future," Dallben murmured, running a bony hand over a page as if the book were an old friend in need of comfort. He turned to look Gwydion in the eye. "Knowledge," he said quietly. "Incredible knowledge." He paused. "And terrible. This state you see me in," he said, gesturing with a shaking hand to his wrinkled face, "Was brought about by the knowledge this book holds."

The enchanter stared into the depths of the boy's green eyes, seeing the fate of the world resting in their swirling depths. "Always remember," the old man whispered, entranced in the thought of the future of a remarkable prince – "Knowledge always has a price. And you must weigh what you shall gain against what you will have to give up from yourself to learn it."

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Gah! That was long! R&R! Reviews are… well, crack. Maybe chocolate is more appropriate, since that's my crack. Yep.**


	4. Chapter 4: Betrayal

I'm alive! I'm still here! I'm back! Eeek, sorry it's been so long (relatively). Midterm exams, you know. shudders emphatically That plus the birth of a new story of mine. Novel potential! And it's one of the first things besides this young'un that I've written that I've liked in a while, so…yeah. Shoutout time!

**Sakura-chan79:** Thank you again!

**CompanionWanderer:** Lol, I just HAD to squeeze Dallben and Coll in here somehow. Don't worry, they are recurring! Nailing the mannerisms – I don't deserve such praise, because I'm nowhere near authentic Alexanderism…but thanks!

**miss mcGonagle:** welcome and thank you! I know, don't their interactions with each other just _scream_ "BACKSTORY!"? lol!

**Paxwolf:** Welcome aboard, and welcome back to Prydain! Ye-ha, these films totally need an awesome film adaptation – in five movies of course. I know many people think that Peter Jackson butchered Lotr, but personally: if I got the news he was doing Prydain, I'd think that I had died and gone to a VERY happy place. No Disney, nu-uh. They killed it already.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Dammit.

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Black Shadow, Golden Sun

**Chapter 4: Betrayal**

A cold wind blew through Annuvin, rattling the iron cages and buffeting about the great birds in the air as they shrieked at the interference. Dead leaves and dust blew in wispy tendrils along the ground, creating an eerie and deadened atmosphere as troops of warriors patrolled amongst the black buildings, sentries on Dark Gate huddled together into groups while keeping keen eyes pointed towards the east.

Achren paced the throne room of the Great Hall, long blue velvety dress whirling around her as she walked. Her finely-booted feet made sharp rapping sounds on the cold stone with every step. Her pale, long-fingered hands were held in front of her, twisting swiftly within each other, occasionally lifting to steady the iron crown on top of her raven hair. She was impatient – she was furious, for Arawn had not yet left Annuvin and he had no explanation for why. Her lips lifted in a snarl, showing pointed teeth. This time, she would punish him. This time, he had gone too far.

The heavy door at the end of the dark hall suddenly began to creak open, and she turned quickly, eyes narrowing as Arawn slunk into the hall, followed by two Cauldron-born and the troop of Huntsmen he was _supposed_ to have left with three days ago. The sight of the animalistic men wearing filthy skins did nothing to improve Achren's mood, nor did the always slightly unsettling sight of the dead eyes of the Cauldron-born.

As Arawn approached, Achren drew herself up to her full height and pointed a clawed hand, accusing finger outstretched. "What do you think you are _doing,_ Arawn?" she hissed. "How dare you disobey my orders – why have you not left?"

Arawn looked up at her, and Achren was suddenly surprised to see that his eyes held not fear or shame, but anger and resentment. His normally anxious face was sunken in sullen lines, and his usual trembling had completely ceased. He was dressed differently as well – his raiment was rich, embroidered in silver and black, fitted perfectly to his unflattering, pudgy body. And then, sealing Achren's shock, Arawn smiled.

"Because you are no longer my mistress, Achren," he murmured as he advanced, eyelids fluttering half-closed. "From this moment forwards, I become my own master, and master of all Prydain."

Achren's mouth fell open, and her hand trembled. He meant to take her throne – he meant to take everything from her! For another moment, she stood paralyzed. Then rage overtook her – she dropped her arm and lunged forward, stopping at the base of the steps leading up to the black throne. "You have lost your wits," she shrieked, yet unable to keep a note of fear out of her voice. "I will know how to punish your disobedience!"

"I think not," Arawn murmured. He stopped walking, and so did the Cauldron-born, taking up defensive positions around him – but the Huntsmen continued towards the cornered queen, their faces skewed with vicious grins. Achren stumbled backwards, lovely face paralyzed with terror.

"What – " the leading Huntsman rushed forward and grabbed her arm painfully. She screamed and jerked backwards, and the iron crown fell off her head with a sharp clang, rolling away to come to rest at Arawn's face as he smirked.

Seeing the face of her servant so smug caused Achren's rage to flare, and as she muttered a few fierce words, the Huntsman who had seized her let go suddenly and fell backwards with a scream, his face burning with an intense heat. The other warriors paused in fear, warily regarding the queen as the hunter does a dangerous animal.

The queen drew herself up proudly, burning eyes fixed on the traitor, disregarding her disheveled hair and mussed dress. "You do not have the strength, you see," she spat. "I can defeat you all with a few words – the Cauldron-born and these creatures are mine to command."

"Oh?" Arawn said softly, jerking his hand in a sharp movement. Instantly, Achren felt as though a great weight was holding her down, suffocating her – the air pressed in around her, and she felt desperately cold. She could not move. And in the same instant, the two Cauldron-born at Arawn's side moved forward together as one, advancing towards the bewitched queen, arms outstretched as she watched in terror.

"A question," Arawn said lightly, almost jovially. "When was the last time you sent a message declaring your intentions to the Sons of Don, my lady?" Arawn's black eyes glittered as he advanced towards the throne. "When was the last time the descendants of Belin were aware of your existence?"

The breath caught in Achren's throat. Surely he did not mean to…

"Yes," Arawn laughed, reading her thoughts in her dark eyes as he loomed over her from behind, foul-smelling breath on her cheek. "It was over five generations ago, was it not?" His hand traced her trembling neck. "And it was I, I who did it all," he continued, voice gloating. "It was I stole the secrets of men for your treasure-house, I who stole the hammer from the smith Iscovan, and the shuttle from the weaver Follin. It was I who was tricked by that fool of a bard Menwy. It was I who stole the Black Crochan from the three witches. It was I."

Achren swore she could hear his smirk, hear the evil oozing from him.

"The queen Achren," he whispered into her ear, "has been dead these past one hundred years, as far as anyone can know."

Tears started in Achren's eyes, but still the heaviness bore down on her, still she could not move. She felt a greasy hand caress her shoulder for an instant, and then her arms were suddenly seized by two rotting hands, and the eyes of the Cauldron-born drilled into her. She screamed as they began to drag her towards the doors of the hall, passing by the discarded crown on the ground and hearing Arawn's mocking laugh as he followed behind her.

They hauled her out of the Great Hall, ignoring her shrieks, and towards the Dark Gate, which through hazy eyes she saw was slightly open. She tried to struggle, but even her own muscles would not obey her commands.

"I am giving you a small troop of the undead," she vaguely heard behind her. "They will have to return to me periodically to regain their strength, but they will otherwise be at your disposal." The gaze neared, and Achren felt herself falling and stumbling forward as the heaviness suddenly dissipated from her limbs. She whirled around, ankle-deep in mud as fat raindrops began to fall, but the black gate was already closed, thudding shut on her past and glory.

"Goodbye, Achren," she heard Arawn murmur through the gate under her frenzied cries. "Now, I must take leave of you. I have two foxes and a young wolf to hunt."

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Well, there ya got it. Gah, this one was hard to write, so much history needing to be resolved. Waaah, and it's short. Sorry, I'll do better next time – it's just getting interesting! Remember, Reviews are addictive! …speaking of which, I need to spend more time writing this and less time on other obsessions. Like opera binges. >_snorts _Yeah. Right. >_runs off to watch Così Fan Tutte for the umpteenth time _**


	5. Chapter 5: Confrontation

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH! I'M SO INCREDIBLY SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG! I got no good excuses, but I'll rattle off a few anyways: tons of schoolwork, preparing for my big yearly violin audition, 3 or 4 other writing projects, and MCAS (blaugh). So, there's my section of groveling. Really, really, really sorry. Augh. Anyways, this one is really long to make up for it all.

**Sakura-chan79:** Thanks again! Your comments are always so uplifting, lol!

**CompanionWanderer:** Hey, and thanks for your PM – to be completely honest, you reminded me the story existed (augh). Yes, I agree chapter 4's too short; I'm definitely thinking of lengthening it later on. Yeah, you're right that it seems weird Arawn gave her Cauldron-born, but consider, why did the Cauldron-born go to her in Book 1? She obviously still had some ties with Arawn – or at least, so I see it.

**helen1982:** Thanks for your comment, and welcome to the story! Yeah I know, there's NOTHING about Gwydion and that totally sucks. This is my rebellion. XD.

**Disclaimer:** Yadda yadda, not mine. Which is totally not cool.

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**Black Shadow, Golden Sun**

**Chapter 5: Confrontation**

Gwydion awoke early the next morning from the pile of blankets he and the two other young men were resting on in the second room of the cottage. His green eyes opened sharply to see a dull grey dawn. Apart from the deep snoring of Coll, lying on a separate pallet on the other side of the room, the farm was eerily silent. Gwydion sat up slightly, the topmost blanket sliding off a bare shoulder. A piece of hair fell into his eyes. Next to him, Pryderi shifted onto his side and mumbled a wordless sound.The cottage door was open, leading out into morning. But not a ray of sunlight could be seen – the entire farm was blanketed in dense, swirling fog. It almost seemed to be alive.

Gwydion frowned and sat up further, then reached over to one side and grabbed the long dagger resting by his bedside. In a few smooth motions, he pulled his dusty white shirt over his head, leaving the topmost section untied, stood, and padded barefoot to the door.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he was suddenly assailed by such cold that he had to duck his head and huddle his arms close to his body. Forcing his eyes open, he had the impression he was struggling against a strong wind. He opened his mouth in shock and tried to yell, but all he could get out was a small croak.

All of a sudden, the fog seemed to shrink and wither, the tendrils vanishing into nothing. The sudden heat and light from the rising morning sun almost blinded Gwydion, and he brought a hand up to his eyes – only to see, to his amazement, that Dallben was standing not ten feet in front of him, arms and staff outstretched.

The old enchanter turned his head slightly, just enough for Gwydion to see on glittering blue eye. The enchanter nodded, then turned away again, gazing intently towards the far end of the farm, across the fields.

Gwydion, his eyes finally adjusted, walked quietly up beside him. "What is it?" the prince muttered.

Dallben jerked his head towards the forest, past the orchard with its fruit-laden trees. "Huntsmen. Five of them." The corners of his eyes tightened. "The fog did not slow their advance. But then, what can you do to stop monsters?" he murmured.

Gwydion drew the long dagger and dropped the leather sheath on the ground as several dark shapes emerged from the forest in the distance.

"No," Dallben said sharply, pointing at the dagger in Gwydion's hand without turning his head. "Wake the others and ride – Coll and I can take care of them."

"What?" Gwydion said incredulously. The Huntsmen were already halfway across the first field – and to his horror, Gwydion saw that they were no longer alone. Three black shapes wheeled and glided in the sky above them, coming ever closer to the cottage.

"Ride," Dallben said again. "You must get away from here before Arawn knows where you are – if you stay here, more of them will come."

Gwydion nodded distractedly and turned to step back into the cottage, but he suddenly felt the old enchanter's hand on his arm, bringing him to a quick stop. Bright blue eyes stared into green ones, and then Dallben said, "You will have to re-cross Avren to avoid them – but you cannot head east afterwards, they will be waiting for you there." Dallben's gaze was unwavering, so intense and clear that the years seemed to fall away from his wrinkled face. "Head to the west," he whispered. "You can hide in the Marshes of Morva."

Gwydion opened his mouth to ask what the marshes were, brow puzzled – but he was cut off by a sudden shriek, loud and menacing.

"Go, Prince of Don!" Dallben half-shouted, as he pushed Gwydion towards the cottage door and turned away again, raising his staff. Overhead, the rumble of storm clouds slowly began to grow.

Gwydion rushed inside the cottage and shoved Pryderi and Morgant off their pallets onto the floor, waking them both. Pryderi let out a loud grunt and sat up with an angry yell, but Morgant instantly knew something was wrong as he saw Gwydion was already pulling on his boots at a frantic pace.

"Huntsmen," Gwydion said shortly as he stood again, strapping on his sword. "And gwythaints." The black-haired youth nodded shortly and began to pull on his shirt. Pryderi only stared, blond hair falling all over his face.

"_Move!_" Gwydion bellowed, startling the younger man into action. By this time Coll was awake as well, and the hale old man rushed out of the cottage towards the barn to ready the horses, leaning against the growing wind, which was quickly becoming a gale. Thirty seconds later the three young men followed, still hurriedly strapping on their weapons, and in Pryderi's case his rich cloak. Just as quickly they mounted their horses – the two stallions were chomping nervously at their bits and prancing, but Melyngar waited patiently until Gwydion leapt up onto her back. The wind was so strong that the healthy summer leaves were being ripped off the trees around them.

"Good luck!" Coll yelled over the gale. "Head north towards the river, Dallben will hold them off from here!" The old man grinned as Gwydion reached down and grasped his hand, and then he let go and dug his heels into Melyngar's flanks. The horses galloped off into the forest nearest the cottage, heading west so they could then sweep around to the north towards the river. Coll watched them for a few seconds, then hurried away towards where Dallben was standing, head lifted high.

As the three young men rode further at a full gallop, the wind gradually lessened and the forest returned to its normal state, the trees standing upright and the sun shining through the canopy. Soon the riders turned their steeds north – and a few hours later they reached the glistening river they had crossed only the day before, splashing across it without even dismounting.

On the opposite bank, it seemed all three of them were suddenly stricken with an immense fatigue. The horses' limbs were shaking, and Pryderi slid off his stallion and collapsed in a hunched sitting position on the ground. Gwydion almost fell off the gasping Melyngar, and only Morgant was left slouched wearily in the saddle. The sunlight had disappeared, leaving the sky a slatish grey.

Finally, Morgant spoke, his voice sounding less controlled and emotional than normal. "I…" he said tremulously. "I feel…heavy."

Gwydion tried to lift his head to look at his friend, but to his surprise found he could not. The very air around him seemed to have suddenly grown thick, weighing down on his limbs and making his movements sluggish. Pryderi, his face a model of surprise, struggled to stand. Only Gwydion's eyes could move quickly, and they darted about him, trying to find the source of the strange enchantment. And then, a troop of riders with a cloaked horseman at their head emerged from the woods not twenty paces away.

Gwydion and Pryderi both scrambled to a standing position as fast as they could, having to lead back against their steeds to stay upright. Gwydion managed to draw his dagger and point it in warning at the strange horsemen. "Stop!" he yelled – even his voice sounded deeper and slower than normal. To his surprise, the horsemen did stop. By this time, Morgant was also on the ground and upright, also being the only one who had been able to draw his sword.

The lead horseman, cloaked in black, slowly moved forward. The other riders were also cloaked so Gwydion could not see their faces – and it seemed to the prince that eyes were staring at them from the woods as well, hidden amongst the branches. Melyngar lifted her head and snorted in fear as the horseman drew closer. It was a pudgy, short figure that was seated in the saddle, and a moment later the rider stopped, and lowered his hood.

It was a pale, sallow face, a hooked, plump nose sticking out from it like an oddly misshapen beak. The eyes were black and dull – neither a light nor a glimmer could be seen in their depths. Yet that was not what struck the terror into the hearts of the three young lords – it was the cold iron crown that was rested in the middle of the lank dark hair.

The lord of Annuvin lifted one fat hand and waved it carelessly through the air, and at once the young men felt the unnatural heaviness lift from their limbs, and they staggered back from the force of the release. Instantly, Pryderi and Gwydion drew their swords and stood in a position ready to fight with Morgant, the three of them standing in a defensive triangle with Gwydion at its head, facing the Lord of Death. And yet, Gwydion's head was whirling – the ruler of Annuvin was not supposed to be a man.

The man chuckled, a thin, evil-sounding noise. "Greetings, Lords of the North," he said silkily, letting go of his horse's reins and folding his hands together in front of him. "I am Arawn, Lord of Annuvin."

"Arawn?" Gwydion asked sharply, eyes blazing, not giving the king a further chance to speak. "It is Achren who is Queen of Annuvin."

Arawn gazed imperiously at Gwydion, his eyes narrowly slightly. Then he smiled, a tight, thin smile. "Nay," he said. "Achren rules no longer in Annuvin. She is disappeared these one hundred years."

Gwydion paused. "Disappeared?" he said softly. "Disappeared or _disposed_, my lord?"

Arawn was silent a moment, then he chuckled again, causing Morgant to shiver in distaste. "Well-said, Prince of Don," he said, his small eyes fixed almost greedily on the golden pendant Gwydion bore around his neck.

One of the horses in Arawn's troop chomped at its bit, the only sound in the tension-filled silence. Another stamped its hoof. Arawn cleared his throat and turned his head slightly, breaking eye contact with Gwydion. Instead, he focused his gaze on Morgant, who stared back with venom.

"How now, Price Morgant?" Arawn said, his tone almost friendly. "Do you play servant-boy to the Prince of Don? Are you so powerless as to not rule Madoc by this time?" Morgant's eyes narrowed, his gaze filled with hatred.

"Ah yes," Arawn said softly. "Power. Such a flighty thing, is it not? One thinks it is in one's grasp, and then it slips away." Arawn ran his gaze over Morgant's dark attire. "Would not it be better to serve a lord when power is guaranteed, when one can advance oneself and one day becomes something…_much more_ powerful?"

Gwydion's grip tightened on his sword, feelings of torment running through him. If Morgant gave in…he, Gwydion, would have to physically restrain his friend. Or – the thought chilled him – kill him. To stop him.

The pause seemed endless. But then Morgant bared his teeth and spat out, "Keep your filthy promises. I want none of them."

Gwydion sighed inwardly with relief, even as Arawn frowned slightly, then suddenly shifted his focus, this time onto Pryderi. Gwydion froze once more, this time with more fear, for he knew Pryderi to be weaker in character if not in body than Morgant.

"Greetings, Son of Pwyll," Arawn said, an almost amiable smile spreading across his face as he stared at Pryderi – but the smile never reached his eyes.

Arawn seemed to sense that he did not need to be as subtle as he had tried to be with Morgant, for he suddenly and abruptly burst out, "In Annuvin, there are halls filled with riches." Pryderi's eyes flickered. "Riches you cannot even imagine. Jewels, gold, precious works of art from the greatest craftsmen in all of Prydain." Arawn's voice grew softer, and he leaned forward, jutting out his head. "And even more, Son of Pwyll. Secrets, incredible, powerful secrets. Secrets that contain all the human knowledge ever found, all the knowledge that could make a man…king of all Prydain."

Pryderi's mouth opened slightly – Gwydion saw it out of the corner of his eye. The golden-haired youth seemed to be struggling deep within him, as he changed his grip on his sword several times. "I…" he murmured.

"Pryderi!" Gwydion said loudly, his voice filled with anguish. With that one word, Pryderi seemed to come out of his trance. His golden brow became as dark as thunder, and he lifted his sword higher towards Arawn, scowl deepening by the second. He did not speak, but the Lord of Death understood.

Arawn recoiled so he was sitting up straight, features suddenly askew with hatred, and the young lords saw exactly what he was. It seemed to Gwydion's keen eyes that a strange darkness pulsed within the lord's body, writing and twisting into terrible shapes. As quickly as that vision had appeared it vanished again, and the prince saw only the black eyes staring, boring into him. Gwydion stared back with all his might, the shining metal of his sword catching the pale light filtering through the dense clouds.

"So be it," Arawn said sharply, taking up the reins of his mount again. "Farewell, my young lords." Here he paused, and a ghost of an evil smile appeared on his face. "Until you are dragged to be bound and gagged, that is." The mouths of the three young men seemed to tighten as one. Arawn wheeled his mount around and let it take a few steps towards the forest, then stopped and turned back. "My servants will enjoy this hunt," he said gloatingly. "Especially for you, Prince of Don," he continued, meeting Gwydion's challenging gaze. "I hear you are quite the talented young man."

With that, the entire troop of the Lord of Annuvin and his followers vanished into the forest, and all was quiet on the deserted riverbank.

Morgant's face was pale and Pryderi was shaking slightly as Gwydion angrily sheathed his sword and dagger, his face set in frustration. The prince looked at each of his companions – Morgant's returning gaze was full of desperate resignation, and Pryderi's with hot shame at what he had nearly done. And Gwydion knew that there was only one way for all of them to perhaps to stay alive.

"We must split up," he said quietly. "If we travel in three different directions, there is a greater chance of us all getting back to Caer Dathyl."

Morgant instantly nodded. Pryderi added his consent a moment later.

"Pryderi," Gwydion continued, "You will ride straight back to Caer Dallben. Stay with Coll and Dallben until all of you feel it is safe to return to Caer Dathyl, and then make your way back. Travel only at night."

Pryderi hesitated a moment, then bowed his head and walked a few steps away to ready his stallion.

"Morgant," Gwydion said quietly, "You will go to Caer Dathyl now, to warn my father – King Math – about the disappearance of Achren and this Lord Arawn. You will have to ride fast to avoid Arawn's soldiers."

Morgant nodded, then paused. "What about you?" he asked quietly.

"I ride west. To the Marshes of Morva – they must be directly south of Annuvin from what Dallben said," Gwydion said heavily. "I will try to lure them away while you make your escape."

"But..!"

"That's a command, prince," Gwydion said harshly, wincing inwardly at the cruelty of his voice. Behind him, Melyngar nickered softly. Morgant's eyelids flickered, then he jerked his head in a short bow and walked off to his steed. Pryderi was already mounted. He solemnly raised a gloved hand and then turned his steed to the south, back into the grey, bubbling waters of the river. Morgant swung into the saddle and immediately started off through the northern forest at a gallop without a look back, head ducked forward over the neck of his stallion.

Gwydion sighed heavily, then straightened his shoulders in a resolute action, his features setting into a determined mask. Quickly he swung into the saddle on Melyngar's back, and with a kindly pat on her neck, urged the mare into a fast canter heading due west, disappearing into the hot sun of the early afternoon.

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**YAY! I'M BACK IN DA HOUSE! …or whatever. Heh.**


	6. Chapter 6: An Odd Encounter

AAAAAAAAAAAUGH!

Yet again, I must grovel with all the power of my feeble cringing. Geez, I call myself a writer? Augh. Anyways, I'm back to assure people that I have in no way forgotten this story; in fact, Prydain seems to be more and more often on my mind. So, I'm finally back with another chapter! And I'd really like to thank everyone who's been reviewing and emailing me with all their comments - you guys are awesome!

Oh, and I'm going to be back for a while. Since school has ended (final exams, midnight movies, concerts, untimely obsessions - there's my section of excuses), I literally have nothing else to do except regale you with more chapters of my increasingly out-of-control stories.

"GET ON WITH IT!" yells the audience. The author cheerfully (and fearfully) obliges. Hope you like it! The Morva Trio is back!

**Sakura-chan79: **Yes, burning schoolwork would be an EXCELLENT idea. Dammit, I left it too late... school's already over. Shoot. Thanks for always reading!

**CompanionWanderer:** Yeah, you're probably right about Arawn shapeshifting - but at the time, I guess I thought that he was 'revealing' himself to the public, so to speak, and that people would want to know how slimy he was. Or...something. You know, I can't believe I wrote it like that now - lol! Hope you like the Os! Sorry I've been away so long!

**helen1982:** Thank you so much! Here's some more (finally)!

**IceQueen66:** Welcome to the story - I'm so glad you like it!

**FanFictionFantom:** lol! I'm definitely not afraid of slash, I'm more afraid of what other Prydain fans would do to me if I wrote it - but that's such an awesome idea, really! No, I haven't stopped, I was just on a very long, unplanned hiatus. I'm glad you like it!

**Gemma:** Hi there stranger! I'm soooooo sorry I didn't reply to your email, but unfortunately I have the reputation of being a notoriously lazy email reply-er (my poor friends and family can attest to that fact). Gwydion and Achren would TOTALLY look awesome together - hee! I hope you get this message, and I'm really glad you like the story!

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Dammit.

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**Black Shadow, Golden Sun**

**Chapter 6: An Odd Encounter**

Westward Gwydion rode, through the rising heat. Soon Melyngar was sweating, her breath coming in short gasps even as her hooves spurred her to a greater speed. The air around the travelers was humid, a haze seeming to form in all directions as they followed the banks of the Avren. Further towards the ocean, the waters seemed to rush faster and faster as they poured into the narrow banks.

Before long, the woods to the north receded, the trees becoming sparser until they gave way to grassy fields. Gwydion steered Melyngar onto the grasses to muffle her hoofbeats, aware at all times that danger lurked behind them - by this time, certainly, Arawn's hunters were on their trail. Gwydion swallowed inadvertently and dug his heels once more into Melyngar's flanks. Although he had of course heard tales of Annuvin's Cauldron-born warriors, he had never had the misfortune to cross their path before - and now, he realized with a shock, he was probably being tracked by the Huntsmen of Annuvin as well.

He was shaken abruptly out of his thoughts as Melyngar suddenly plunged to a halt with a panicked whinny and the prince was nearly vaulted over her neck. Melyngar pranced backwards from where she had stopped, chomping nervously at her bridle. With a sudden exclamation, Gwydion saw that Melyngar's right foreleg was covered up to her knee in thick mud - the mare had almost fallen into a pit of moss and muddy grasses which lay before them.

Sliding off Melyngar's back, Gwydion quickly checked her leg for injury. Even though there was obviously nothing broken, he was greeted by the sight of inflamed skin around Melyngar's ankle - a weaker horse would have been lamed. Gritting his teeth in frustration and shared pain for Melyngar, the prince scooped up more of the cool mud lying before him and packed it liberally around Melyngar's leg in an attempt to lessen the swelling. Melyngar tossed her head and snorted as he did so, finally calming down until she stood docilely, favoring her other three legs, her head bowed down in exhaustion.

Collapsing down into the grass with a sigh, Gwydion was surprised to find that he and Melyngar were now in very strange, gloomy surroundings. Fog seemed to billowing everywhere, cooling the air into a chill. More pools of the same kind Melyngar had almost fallen into were everywhere, filled with mud which seemed to slowly ooze in ever-expanding tendrils. Only slender pathways of weeds and dead grasses wound through the mist around the pools, forming dangerous walkways which disappeared into the distance. Gwydion knew in an instant that they had reached the Marshes of Morva.

"I can take shelter _here?_" he murmured to himself as Melyngar nuzzled his arm, wondering incredulously why Dallben had directed him to this desolate place. Still, Gwydion thought in resignation, he would probably be safe from Huntsmen in the shadows of the bog.

All thoughts of safety flew from the prince's mind as he suddenly heard a rustling in the grass behind him. Whipping his head sharply in that direction, Gwydion was in time to catch a glimpse of a manically grinning face hiding itself in the underbrush, the pursuer's face distorted with a horrific brand seared into his forehead - the mark of Arawn.

Instantly Gwydion jumped up and began leading the limping Melyngar into the bog by the reins, drawing his dagger from its sheath with a sharp snick. Allowing Melyngar to go first into the marshes - her animal instincts about where to step would surely be stronger than his - Gwydion followed closely behind her as his sharp eyes kept watch on the field behind them, scanning for any movement. Melyngar broke into a stumbling trot at Gwydion's urging, her eyes wide with panic as she sensed the tension in his usually calm voice.

A gust of fog blew across Gwydion's vision, obscuring the field from view for a moment as Melyngar limped gamely down the wet pathways, slime oozing up from her hooves. He craned his head in all directions, dagger in hand, trying to guard against any sudden attack. The prince knew full well that the Huntsmen of Annuvin were feared for their silent attacks, and their stealth, known throughout Prydain as the stealth of animals.

Without any warning, a man suddenly flung himself onto Gwydion out of the fog, and the prince gave out a yell as he was thrown to the ground. Melyngar squealed in panic as another dark shape, wearing the skin of a wolf, flung itself onto her back. Gwydion struggled with his opponent, who made horrible growling noises from under his skin, this one the skin of an elk. Gwydion could feel the mud of the bog giving way under his head and shoulders as he brought up his dagger and struck upwards, the blade finding its mark in the Huntsman's belly. The creature screeched, a sound definitely sounding more animal than human, and then collapsed onto the prince, who gasped at the unexpected weight.

Pushing the body off of him, Gwydion scrambled to his feet and started towards Melyngar, who was bucking and twirling as best she could on her wounded leg. The Huntsman on her back was scrabbling at her neck, trying to hold on, with obvious strength far above the man Gwydion had just killed - the curse laid upon the Huntsmen had already taken effect. With a great leap, Gwydion landed on the back of the Huntsman and dragged the both of them off Melyngar's back, narrowly avoiding falling into the bog. With a snarl, the Huntsman flung Gwydion away from him, but he was up again in an instant and drew his sword, flinging his muddy hair out of his eyes.

The Huntsman grinned wolfishly as it drew a dagger, a sharp implement with a curiously misshapen hilt and a blade which curved and twisted, its edges lined with rust. In another moment he threw himself at Gwydion, who twisted out of the way of the swinging blade and lashed out with his own sword as the Huntsman's momentum carried him past the prince. The Huntsman screamed as Gwydion's sword struck down his back, but he turned back again just as quickly and caught the prince by surprise. Gwydion cried out as the dagger caught his sleeve and ripped open his arm.

Ignoring the pain, Gwydion lunged forward and was just able to push the Huntsman off balance with his shoulder. With a sudden shriek, the Huntsmen flailed his arms, dropping his dagger, and then slowly toppled backwards into the bog. Within seconds, his head disappeared under the flowing mud, and an eerie silence returned to the marsh.

Panting from his exertion, Gwydion hurried towards Melyngar, sheathing his sword as he went. Melyngar stamped her hoof, waiting for Gwydion to mount her. As much as he knew it would aggravate her injury, he knew that he had to get as far into the marshes as possible, and that riding Melyngar was the fastest way to get there. Gritting his teeth against the pain from his wound - blood had now trickled down to his wrist from the slash on his upper right arm - he climbed up into the saddle and urged Melyngar as fast as he dared along the boggy paths, letting Melyngar have her head so that she could chose any route she wanted.

As Melyngar trotted forward, it seemed to Gwydion that the fog was beginning to play tricks on his mind. He began to hear voices and the sounds of men on his trail, even though he could see nothing whenever he craned his head to look the way they had come. The fog had become thicker, so that he could only see about five feet in any direction. For quite a time Melyngar picked her way through the quagmire, until Gwydion felt a welcome breeze blowing from the north. Soon the fog was dispersing, and pale beams of light began to break through the mist, showing it to be still some hours until sunset.

Another gust of wind, stronger than those before it, suddenly swept away the remnants of fog in one fell swoop, and Gwydion saw with a flash of horror that six Huntsmen were within a hundred paces of him and Melyngar, having tracked them since they set foot in the marshes. In one movement, the Huntsmen lunged forward with animal yells. Gwydion dug his heels into Melyngar's flanks, and the mare broke into a gallop, disregarding her wounded leg as she darted amongst the deadly mud traps.

In the distance, Gwydion's eye caught on a strange sight - not far away, the marshes rose into a small mound on which sat an old ruined cottage, flanked by a lean-to chicken coop and a barn which seemed to be sinking down into the bog itself. Although it was clear no one inhabited the strange group of buildings, he turned Melyngar towards them, reasoning in his desperation that he could at least make a stand against the Huntsmen there. Melyngar pounded closer to the cottage, the Huntsmen drawing nearer behind her. The pursuers were now ranged all in a straight line, advancing forward with purpose as they leapt over smaller pools of mud.

Suddenly, as the cottage came within a few hundred paces of Melyngar's hooves, Gwydion noticed that just before the ground firmed into that of the hill where the cottage stood, there was a huge pool of the bog, larger than any he had yet seen. Its edges were ringed by tall marsh grasses, so tall that Gwydion was sure the Huntsmen, without the advantage of being mounted, had not seen the pit beyond them. With resolution, he spurred Melyngar to a greater speed and headed straight for the edge of the pit, hoping fervently that the mare would not be injured further when she landed on the other side.

Looking behind him, Gwydion saw with satisfaction that the Huntsmen, fleet of foot, were mere paces behind Melyngar's back flanks. Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward as the edge of the bog neared and then, as they came to the grasses at the edge of the bog, signaled with his legs for Melyngar to jump. The mare did with a huge heave, legs stretching out with great effort as she sailed towards the far edge and the safety of firm ground. Melyngar landed on her injured front leg with tremendous force and Gwydion's heart clenched in fear as she gave out a loud squeal of pain and the rest of her body tumbled onto the grass of the hill with a crash - Gwydion was barely able to leap off of her back in time, almost rolling back down into the bog.

Scrambling back up, the prince looked back towards the marshes, and saw that his plan had worked - the Huntsmen screamed as they leapt over the grasses, only to find that they were falling straight down into the mud. They tried to scramble out, some of them pushing their comrades further down in their haste. It was almost frightening how quickly they sank - Gwydion turned his head away as their struggles became weaker, feeling almost sick for what he had done. He stood up shakily and made his way over to Melyngar, clutching his wounded arm. Melyngar lay quietly in the grass, her breath coming in great gasps. Too exhausted to do anything more, Gwydion fell to his knees beside her and leaned against her belly, screwing up his eyes in pain.

He knew not how long he lay there, but gradually he felt Melyngar's breathing starting to even out, and a certain measure of strength returned to his limbs. He was just about to lift his head when he froze - he heard footsteps coming towards him. But before he could move, a bubbly voice suddenly said:

"Oh dear, you poor little duckling! You really shouldn't go around playing with sharp swords, you know!"

Raising his head in alarm, Gwydion found himself confronted by three women - well, old women, he thought. All three wore tattered robes of black, and their bare feet, poking out from the robes, were exceptionally large. But there the similarities ended. The women standing closest to Gwydion and leaning over him slightly wore old beads and tarnished ornaments in her bird's nest hair, yellow teeth poking out from her wide smile. The second looked much alike, but instead of the hair ornaments wore a strand of white stones wrapped around her neck. Gwydion could not see the face of the third woman, for her face was hidden from view by her thick dark cloak. He lay frozen, eyes flicking between the three, trying to decide if they were a threat to him.

"Ooh, he's a tasty-looking one," the cloaked one murmured raspily. "We must make him a toad. He'd be a lovely toad."

"You and your toads, Orgoch!" the first one chirped, exasperation creeping into her voice. "Orwen and I are quite sick to death of toads. I, for one, think he would in fact make a wonderful gosling."

"Or a sparrow," the woman with the necklace of white put in, her eyes shining. "Just think, a little sparrow! He could sing to us!"

"I like toads," the cloaked one, Orgoch, said grouchily. "You're no fun, Orddu. Birdsong! Humph."

"That's just because you're Orgoch today," said Orwen. "I declare, my sweet, I don't see how you can stand being Orgoch - I had to be Orgoch for an entire week, and today I only got to be Orwen! You've been selfish recently, Orddu - you really should give us a turn!"

"Not on your life," Orddu sniffed. "Besides, being Orddu isn't all it seems most of the time, my dear. I mean, look at this hair…!"

Gwydion lay absolutely still, wondering whether he was awake or dreaming some sort of bizarre nightmare. Because he had met Dallben and because of the Don blood flowing in his veins, he had never been afraid of enchantment - but turning him into a toad? Swallowing nervously, he inched his hand down to his side and quietly drew his still bloody dagger from its sheath.

Before he could raise it however, he felt something suddenly slither in his hand. With a yell, he discovered that instead of his dagger, he now held a small brown snake, rearing its head to strike. He threw it from him, and it fell to the ground, suddenly a bloody dagger again.

"Now now," Orddu said gently, "What did we say about playing with sharp things, you poor tadpole?" Her bright eyes were fixed on Gwydion's shocked face, but then she caught sight of the emblem on Don hanging haphazardly from his neck. She clapped her hands, gave a little giggle, and said delightedly, "Oh, look, Orwen! Our little chicken is a very important visitor!"

"Oh, no. I wanted to turn him into a toad," Orgoch grumbled from underneath her hood.

"What are you?" Gwydion finally burst out, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "Dallben never said that - "

"Dallben?" Orwen cried out gleefully. "Dear little Dallben! Did you come from Dallben? Oh, my!"

Without another word, the astounded Gwydion found himself pulled to his feet and ushered towards the cottage, towering over the short little women who pushed him along towards the door. Now that he came closer, Gwydion could see that the cottage was far from empty - in fact, it was full to bursting with all sorts of odd objects. Swords, harps, and dusty old tomes lay in disarray around a huge cauldron which bubbled over a brightly burning fire on the floor.

Gwydion turned back in consternation. "Wait - Melyngar - "

"Don't worry about her, my little goose," one of the two cheerful ones said lightly. "Orgoch will take good care of her, won't you Orgoch?"

Somehow, that did not make Gwydion feel any better. With no other choice, it seemed, he allowed himself to be led into the cottage and was deposited onto an old cot which creaked so loudly as he sat down upon it that his ears rang. With a disapproving cluck, Orwen drew his sleeve up his wounded arm until she reached the still-bleeding gash, and then rummaged around on a dusty shelf until she found a small bottle the contents of which she promptly poured over the wound. Gwydion gasped as it stung the cut, but could already feel some of the pain lifting.

Orgoch was nowhere to be seen, but presently Orddu came bustling into the cottage holding a large wooden bucket of water. Singing a cheerful little ditty to herself - "_the toads are hopping down the path, stomp on them and hear them splat_" - she marched straight over to Gwydion and proceeded to pour the entire bucket over his head despite his protests. In another moment, the prince found himself lying back on the cot and covered by a moldy old blanket as the two giggling hag tiptoed out the door.

"Sleep well, my chicken!" Orddu said gaily as she waved goodbye.

"Don't be a naughty gosling, now!" Orwen added.

With that, the door closed and Gwydion found himself left alone in the cottage. Marveling at the strange situation - he decided it must have been a hallucination - Gwydion nevertheless felt sleep tugging at him, his exhausted body aching for rest. Just as he fell into a deep sleep, he heard the soft sound of Melyngar's breath, calm and peaceful, coming from outside the cottage; and with that reassurance that she was safe, he surrendered himself to sleep completely.

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Gwydion was not sure what made him awaken late that night, but he opened his eyes to a scene even stranger than before. It seemed to him that three beautiful women were suddenly in the cottage, although his mind, clouded with dreams, just recognized Orddu's hair ornaments and Orgoch's cloak through the darkness.

The three enchantresses rushed around the cottage on light feet, the silvery sound of their laughter something beautiful to hear.

"It's starting, it's starting - oh, how exciting!" Orddu giggled. Laughing in delight, she and Orwen clustered around a huge loom standing in one corner - Gwydion wondered why he hadn't seen it before - as the veiled form of Orgoch peered over their shoulders.

With inhuman speed, Orwen's shapely fingers flew over the loom, in a matter of a minute producing a detailed little scene. Through the haze of sleep, Gwydion thought he saw the small forms of a man and a woman, wearing the simple clothes of farmers. In the woman's arms there lay a tiny baby.

"Now there will be a great toad," Orgoch murmured.

"Oh, Orgoch…" Orwen sighed.

His mind overflowing with exhaustion and puzzlement, Gwydion remembered no more.

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**YAY! This chapter was SO much fun to write. Action and the sisters…sigh. Hope you guys aren't so mad at me that you won't review! Thanx!**


	7. Chapter 7: Fate

Told you I'd be back soon. Nyeheheh.

That being said, please forgive me if this update seems kinda depressed or boring – I just watched England lose to Portugal and my heart is therefore broken.

**FanFictionFantom:** glad you're back for more! Hmm. Let me see. With all my considerable expertise, taking into account all the collected evidence and using all my well-tempered judgment…I'd say you had just a _little_ thing for Mr. Pryderi, dear reader. Lol! Don't' worry, Pryderi will definitely be back…erm, later. I'm not sure how much later, y'see, because I'm just writing this thing as I go along – I have absolutely no plan for where it's going. But I hope you'll keep reading!

**CompanionWanderer:** Thank you for all the compliments! I wasn't sure about sneaking in the Taran embroidery thing at first, but I'm really glad you caught it! I must admit, I LOVE writing action scenes. Sometimes I think it would be really fun to try my hand at writing a screenplay of some sort, but I've never gotten around to it. Thank you so much for the pronoun thing – it was very awkward, wasn't it? I've gone back and put up an edited version of chapter 6 – thanks again!

**Sakura-chan79:** You are such an awesome reader. Thank you! Lol, don't worry, Gwydion is in no danger of being turned into anything…not just yet.

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Double darn.

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**Black Shadow, Golden Sun**

**Chapter 7: Fate**

Gwydion was woken by a weak beam of light breaking through a hole in the cottage's crumbling roof. Blinking to clear his eyes, the prince raised himself up on one arm, grimacing at the dull pain from his still-smarting wound, and found the cottage deserted. There was no sign of the loom he had seen in his strange dream the night before, or of Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch. Despite his adventures the previous day, the silence of the marshes made Gwydion feel very calm and safe. Yawning, he swung his still-booted legs off the cot and stood, stretching his neck and legs from his night on the cramped cot.

His eyes snapped open suddenly as he remembered – Melyngar! He walked quickly out the cottage door, finding himself confronted by a grey dawn. The marshes seemed as if they had been transformed into a sea of fog – low-lying mist covered the ground but did not obscure the grey-blue sky, swirling about the boggy paths in thick white tendrils.

Far in the distance, Gwydion saw with a shock that to the north lay a small range of mountains, their peaks jagged and dark. Somewhere within that range, Gwydion realized, lay the fortress of Annuvin where Arawn was waiting impatiently for his capture. Shifting his gaze to the east, Gwydion saw nothing save the expanse of fog covering the marshes – only by squinting could he make out the haze of the Forest of Idris on the horizon. He was, he thought, completely cut off from any escape route – for only death and torture lay to the north and the Huntsmen surely awaited him in the forest. To the south and west of him, he knew, lay only the ocean surrounding Prydain. For the moment, it seemed he was trapped.

Shaking the gloomy thought from his mind, Gwydion made his way over to the door of the ramshackle barn in the early morning light. Inside, he was surprised to find not the disarray and age which he expected, but an earthen floor covered with a deep layer of fresh hay – and in the hay stood Melyngar, lazily munching on a few strands of the sweet grass which she had picked up from near her feet. The mare looked around as Gwydion entered and then walked happily over to him, picking her hooves high above the hay. Melyngar nuzzled Gwydion's face with her own and whinnied softly; Gwydion laughed quietly at the affectionate gesture and knelt down to inspect the leg which she had wounded the day before.

To his relief, Gwydion found that the skin around Melyngar's ankle was dry and cool, with almost no sign of swelling whatsoever. Her bridle and saddle were nowhere to be seen – had they been, Gwydion would almost have been tempted to ride her around the hillock a few times to build up her strength again. The prince sat down in the hay next to Melyngar with a sigh, wondering how in Prydain he was going to get out of the bog. Melyngar seemed to sense his distress and leaned her head against him gently; he reached up his hand and stoked her nose absently, staring out across the expanse of the marshes through the barn's open door.

He was suddenly startled out of his thoughts by the sight of Orddu's frazzled head poking around the door of the barn. "Good morning, my little goose!" She said cheerfully as she came fully into the barn, followed by the other two enchantresses; Orwen was beaming, while Orgoch was still swathed in her cloak, only the tip of her shriveled nose sticking out of the black hood.

Gwydion stood and pulled himself up to his full height before bowing deeply to the three enchantresses. "I must thank you for your kind treatment of Melyngar – she seems quite recovered from her injury."

"Think nothing of if, my sweet," Orwen giggled, her beady eyes shining kindly.

"I realize now that I did not introduce myself to you yesterday," Gwydion said gravely. "My name is – "

"Gwydion, Son of Math, Prince of Don," Orgoch grumbled loudly. "We know."

Gwydion did not show any sign of surprise, for he had guessed that the enchantresses had already figured out who he was – the greeting he had offered them was a mere formality. Green eyes clear, he then asked, "Please, could one of you three ladies tell me if there is anything important which awaits me here?"

"Whatever do you mean, my chicken?" Orddu asked. Despite the tone of curiosity in her voice, Gwydion thought he could see a faint craftiness in her gaze, and so pressed on –

"I was fleeing the Huntsmen of Annuvin when I arrived here, that much you must know. But what I believe you do not know was that I was sent here, in a way. Dallben of Caer Dallben sent me here – he told me I could find shelter here, and yet I am puzzled as to why he sent me into the middle of these marshes instead of to a safer place or to Caer Dathyl." Gwydion stared at Orddu and Orwen, who suddenly seemed very interested in playing with their hair ornaments or their beads. Orgoch was as silent as ever.

"Is there something Dallben sent me here to learn – or something to find?" Gwydion asked, his voice full of respect, yet insisting. "Please, I must know. I saw that you took different forms during the night – "

"Oh dear," Orwen said unhappily.

"And I know that you three are quite possibly more powerful than Dallben or any other enchanters in Prydain. Do you have anything to tell me, anything that might help?"

"Yes, we have something to tell," Orgoch grunted. "But we had hoped we would not have to."

"Oh," Orddu said, her heavy lip suddenly trembling. "I do _hate_ to have to tell bad things! Must we really?"

The group stood in silence before the barn door. It had grown colder, and a cool wind blew through the barn in great gusts. Melyngar shivered slightly and turned from Gwydion's side to pick more hay up from the barn floor. Her movement seemed to stir the enchantresses – Orddu let out a great sigh and turned from the door, motioning for Gwydion to follow her. "Come, little tadpole – we might as well get this over with."

Full of foreboding, but yet not afraid, Gwydion closed the barn door to keep some warmth in the barn for Melyngar, then followed the three women back into the ramshackle cottage, where he found Orwen slowly stirring the fire under the huge cauldron in the center of the floor. As Gwydion entered, the enchantress stood from her work and sat in a chair across the room. The prince saw that all three of the women were seated around the room, seated facing him as though in some strange tribunal.

"Yes, we are very powerful, little gosling," Orddu said abruptly. "We could tell you things that would curl your ears, and then you might wish you were a toad after all. It's not so bad, being a toad, you know…!" she trailed off as she saw that no smile graced Gwydion's face. He waited patiently until Orgoch suddenly spoke up.

"Before we reveal to you this prophesy, you must answer a few questions for us, my dear," Orgoch said, her voice sounding somewhat less gravelly than normal. "First…" – Gwydion could swear that her voice was grower lighter with each word – "do you love this land of Prydain, the land of your birth?"

"I do," Gwydion answered instantly. Unbidden, thoughts of Caer Dathyl flew into his mind – Caer Dathyl in the summer, with its stones warmed by the sun's rays, Caer Dathyl in winter, when snows covered the plains around the city in a blanket of purest white.

"Second," the voice of Orwen said, sounding light and musical, "would you therefore die for this land of Prydain, for each and every man and woman residing within it?"

Shocked, Gwydion found himself staring not at an old crone, but an exquisite young woman with curling locks of golden hair cascading down by her pale cheeks. Her hands, folded in her lap, were white and graceful, the long fingers the same that had woven the tapestry the night before. Had it not been for the string of white beads around her neck reflecting the light from her luminous blue eyes, Gwydion would never have recognized Orwen.

"I would," the prince said loudly, pronouncing the words through his surprise. Almost from his earliest years, Gwydion had been prepared by his heritage and by his training to defend each being in Prydain against Annuvin. He had always been ready to give his life for the defense of Prydain.

"Remember these answers when the prophesy is revealed, little tadpole," the voice of Orddu said from the side of the room, musical and beautiful to hear. "For they will help you to bear the burden."

Turning, Gwydion saw Orddu, and yet not Orddu. The young woman sitting there exuded grace and passion, her hair both longer and curlier than Orwen's, and fiery red. Freckles dotted her cheerful upturned nose, and her chocolate brown eyes radiated wisdom and kindness. The firelight from underneath the cauldron glinted off the ornaments in her hair, which seemed to have lost their dullness and shone like pure silver.

"There is a fate laid upon you, Prince of Don," Orddu continued, her tone laced with sadness. "A fate that affects not only you but your entire House." She paused. "This knowledge of one's future can be a terrible and shocking truth to bear. Do you feel ready to accept it, my dear little starling?"

Gwydion hesitated only an instant before he said, "I do."

"Very well," murmured Orddu and Orwen as one, closing their eyes in small sighs. Orgoch, as rude as ever despite her obvious transformation, grunted in condescension. Gwydion thought he could just make out a swinging lock of jet-black hair resting at the side of Orgoch's shadowed face until it was hidden from his view as she drew further back into her cloak.

"There are two ways that your life could end, Prince of Don," the sullen enchantress said softly. "We cannot be sure of what will happen, for even we cannot determine the fates of things so far in the future. The path of your existence will take many turns, and you shall face many dangers and many troubled times. But through it all, you shall persevere until the end."

"Certain pathways you could take will only end in failure and death," Orwen said quietly.

Gwydion flinched inwardly, his thoughts instantly carrying him to the imagination of a future where he could see Arawn laughing at him mockingly, where he could see the despair of Prydain under the rule of death.

"Or," Orddu murmured through her auburn locks, "You shall triumph, with your friends by your side and all the loyal men of Prydain yours to command."

Orgoch continued on before Gwydion could even open his mouth. "But," she said raspily, age and sternness creeping back into her voice, "If that should come to pass, you and all of your House are fated to leave Prydain forever."

Such was the shock that Gwydion felt at hearing those words that he almost reeled backwards out the cottage door. He caught himself on the edges of the door with his hands, stopping with a start. Green eyes wide, he stared at each of the suddenly old and grey-haired enchantresses in turn, wondering if he had misheard or if there had been some terrible mistake. But almost immediately, he knew that what they had said was true. He could not doubt them, not in the face of their power, their solemnity, and the warning they had given him before the terrible truth had been uttered. Gwydion's mind instantly became a whirlwind of thought and fears – leaving Prydain? Leaving the land of his birth, the land that he loved, at the moment of his greatest triumph – if it even came to pass? The full burden of his fate – failure and death or the bittersweet victory surpassed by the sorrow of parting – came over him like a wave, and he closed his eyes in anguish.

"We are sorry, my poor duckling," came Orddu's voice through his sorrow. "We would not have told you if we thought we could avoid it. But you must remember," she added, her tone slightly whimsical, "there is a destiny laid on everything; on the smallest toads and farmers as well as the loneliest princes, and a destiny laid even on us."

A few moments of silence later, Gwydion steeled himself and opened his eyes, blinked, and took his hands away from the doorway. Standing up straight, he then bowed deeply to each of the three enchantresses in turn, his hand resting on the sword which was still strapped to his hip – a weapon which now seemed very heavy.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "If it should please you, I shall depart this place in the morning, or as soon as Melyngar is able."

"Do as you will," Orwen said gently, once again the blonde-haired beauty.

"Good luck, my chicken," the red-haired Orddu said, her eyes glistening slightly.

Orgoch said nothing as Gwydion turned and strode out into the marsh. The three enchantresses watched from the window as the prince wandered slowly amongst the wet paths, never straying far, yet stopping often and staring out towards the horizon in all directions, towards the ocean, towards the forest in the east, and towards the dark mountains in the north, where his gaze lingered a long time.

That night, Gwydion slept in the barn next to Melyngar, soothed slightly by the deep sound of the mare's breathing. Through a hole in the dilapidated building's roof, he hoped to see the stars as he saw them every night above Caer Dathyl, but he could see nothing but grey clouds. He slipped into an uneasy sleep, haunted by dreams of his beloved home burning, or worse, slipping below the horizon.

* * *

Achren was furious.

She was wet. She was hungry, because none of Cauldron-born or the human guards she had picked up on the way from Annuvin were back with any food for her yet. She was dirty, for her long blue dress had been splattered with mud during the ride through the Forest of Idris and she was wet from the driving rain hitting the sides of her tent.

She sat on a fur which was yet not thick enough to protect her muscles from the hard roots underneath the material of the tent's floor, clutching a small woven bag to her which contained all the treasures she had been allowed to bring away from Annuvin with her. Her hands trembled, not only with fatigue and fear but rage, rage which stemmed from the swirling thoughts in her head, all of which were tinged with darkness. Plots of revenge and plans for her new rise to power, plans to subjugate all Prydain to her rule. She would…

She shook her head suddenly, missing the weight of her jeweled earrings. She was behaving like a madwoman – well, she thought ironically, perhaps she was. But it would not do her any good. All the tricks which she had taught Arawn himself – she almost hissed as she thought of his name – would come to be of use to her. She would have to build allies around her, use all her charm and beauty as a woman to find men that would help her, men that she could use to help her regain her throne.

She would rise again, she decided mentally and forcefully. She would. With a cruel smile creeping onto her face, Achren opened the bag she had been holding and withdrew a small mirror so she could gaze on her haggard but still striking features. But as soon as she looked at it, she gasped and dropped it to the tent's floor, where its corner within its golden frame shattered.

Her black hair, normally only streaked with grey, had turned pure silver, shimmering even in the dark tent. Achren stared at her reflection in the broken mirror, threw herself on the fur, and sobbed.

* * *

**Hope you guys like this one! Basically just a lot of setting up, but hey! Did you catch the line from _The Black Cauldron _which I used? Please forgive me if I got the descriptions of the enchantresses' beautiful forms wrong – I'm afraid I don't have my copy of _The High King_ with me at the moment. The next chapter is when everything gets very very interesting. **

**... oh, ew. I just killed a mosquito and now there's blood all over the keyboard. Oh, GROSS…**


	8. Author's Note

**Author's note:**

Gah.

Uh.

Gorrammit.

Well, all I can do is say, once again, that I feel like the most awful person on the planet for deserting this story like this; without any warning, no less! And so, with this pitifully delayed author's note, I have come to beg for forgiveness and to make a promise – that I will update this story this weekend, or all of you who have been so kind as to read it and leave me comments over the past year have hearty permission to digitally burn me at the proverbial stake.

Things have been incredibly busy this year, what with it being my junior academic year in high school (god, more work than I've ever had in my life and I'm less than half-way through…!), PSATs, lots of musical practice and rehearsal, a very time-consuming Shakespeare play, National Novel Writing Month 2006 (from which emerged my second novel, _In Search of Comity_ (Tentative), at over 50,000 words), and a newfound obsession with the life and times of T.E. Lawrence (known to many as Lawrence of Arabia) out of which has sprung the idea for yet another novel. All in all, it's been a bit of a time; but I've still been feeling guilty every time I catch a glimpse of my copies of Prydain on my bookshelf. Would you believe that until a few days ago, I haven't had time to read a whole book since the end of August? Nah, me neither. It's surreal.

Anyways, I hope you'll forgive me, and I will do whatever is necessary to get a new chapter of this up this weekend! Gwydion has taken to poking me with his sword, which has become rather painful, so I'm finally going to bite the bullet and continue. Thanks!

**AKAtheCentimetre**


	9. Chapter 8: Farewells and Meetings

Well, here's my end of the bargain – again, thank you all for being so patient with me! I made it extra long, too – all sorts of things are happening now. The ball can't stop rolling, the plunge has been taken! Ahem. Yeah.

**Sakura-chan79: **Thank you so much for waiting and reviewing so often! You're amazing! Yeah, I really do fell sorry for Achren as well – I really did while reading _The High King_, and I sort of wanted to explore that. I'm glad you felt it in the story!

**CompanionWanderer: **Thank you for your reviews – again, my sincere best wishes for your husband during this difficult time – I hope he is much better. It's so great to get in touch with other Prydain fans, and you're the most dedicated one I know.

**helen1982: **Thank you for reading! I'm sorry I've been away for so long, and I hope you continue to enjoy reading it!

**arian: **Thanks! I hope you continue to read!

**Giggles:** I'm so glad you enjoyed it – thank you for your comments! I hope you continue to enjoy it, since I'm finally back!

**DISCLAIMER: You know the drill.

* * *

**

**Black Shadow, Golden Sun**

**Chapter 8: Farewells and Meetings**

Achren awoke early the next morning, early enough to hear the birds twittering in the branches of the forest. Rising regally from her fur, she stood up straight as an arrow and then ducked out of the tent, her eyes full of fire. Outside, the picturesque scene of the campfire and the men huddled around it in the morning chill, surrounded by the majestic trees of the Forest of Idris, was spoiled by the ominous sight of the Cauldron-born warriors standing in silent vigil in the shadows. The scent of death hung in the air like a dismal cloud.

Narrowing her eyes in disgust and anger, Achren stalked past the campfire and into the trees, waving her hand dismissively at one human guard, who had half-began to stand up and follow her. Entering the forest from the small clearing, Achren made sure she was alone before beginning her enchantments. She wanted to bathe, and she was certainly not going to jump into the nearest river. A few minutes walk from the camp, she found herself in a small grove tucked away between the roots of four or five magnificent trees, their healthy summer leaves cloaking the forest floor in darkness.

Achren closed her eyes and drew her thin hands in to clasp each other in front of her, bowing her head as she began to mutter charms underneath her breath, her voice untainted by harshness, mellifluous and warm. A few moments later she felt a small wind curling itself about her as the tree branches rustled and the leaves beneath her feet rushed along the ground. The wind grew steadily louder until it was roaring in her ears and straining her eardrums, although she knew that from a distance the grove would look as peaceful as it had ever been, except to another enchanter or enchantress. Soon it began to subside as Achren brought her hands steadily away from her body, completing a circle with her arms. As her hands reached their apex above her head, the winds abruptly stopped, and she opened her bright eyes to view the results of her magic.

The grove, once leaf-covered and rustic, had been transformed into a beautiful sparkling pool between the tree roots, the water clear and glinting as it rushed from a spring emerging from a crack between the roots of the grandest tree, laughing merrily as it splashed down to the surface. Rich green moss and a small but colorful bank of flowers and herbs had sprung up around the edges of the water – for despite having lived in Annuvin for so long, Achren herself still cherished the delicate beauty she had seen reflected back at her from her most gorgeous jewels or the treasures of man that were hoarded away in Annuvin's cold chambers.

Achren winced subconsciously as she thought of Annuvin, and to quell the rising anger within her she stepped over to the edge of the pool, where stood a shining silver pitcher and a stack of finely-woven linens for drying herself. It was the work of a moment to remove her travel-stained gown and step into the water, which was heated to a comfortable warmth. Achren sighed in relief at the touch of the water, and reached behind herself to release her hair from its restraining band.

It was only when it fell about her shoulders and in front of her face that she remembered the change in it – the silver shone dully to her eyes, and she quickly shook it out of her face so she would not have to look upon it, for she knew no enchantment would return it to its former darkness. As she floated dreamily on the surface of the pool, Achren saw that the sun's rays were breaking through the trees above her and turning the water into a shimmering gold. She closed her eyes and let herself drift, finding a moment of peace where she could stop thinking about Annuvin and cleanse herself in her magic, all her thoughts empty and trivial.

* * *

Gwydion awoke in the barn just as the sun was beginning to turn they sky a pale scarlet over the marshes, his eyes snapping open sharply and taking a few moments to adjust to the dim light. Sitting up and suppressing a slight shudder in the chill dawn, Gwydion quickly saw to Melyngar, each of his moments seeming very deliberate and mechanical. Melyngar rose from the pile of hay where she had been resting and took a few steady steps towards him, nuzzling his face as if to comfort him with a small snort as he came to her.

Gwydion grinned joylessly as he felt her warm muzzle against his cheek, then knelt down in the straw to inspect her injured leg. He could tell immediately that not only was she ready to ride, but that she had healed so quickly it almost looked as if she had never been injured at all. Silently thanking Orgoch for being such a good healer – and for not turning Melyngar into a toad in the first place, which is what he had thought she would do – Gwydion quickly saddled and bridled the mare, leading her out onto the marshy hillock outside while he carried his boots and sword.

A few moments later he was ready to leave, just as the sun peeked up over the horizon and shed its first real rays of light on the marshes, revealing blankets of fog which rivaled the mist of a few days previous when Gwydion had first made his way into Morva with the Huntsmen on his trail. Wearily resigning himself to another tension-filled ride, ready to look over his shoulder to watch for enemies at every pace, Gwydion swung the reins over Melyngar's neck and was about to mount when his eye caught a movement in the gaping window of the enchantresses' cottage. He paused, his mind wandering back to the previous day when his world had been changed forever by Orddu, Orwen, and Orgoch's solemn decrees. He turned then, and made his way to the door of the cottage leaving Melyngar behind – the dilapidated wood swung open for him as he approached, as if he was expected.

Gwydion stepped into the gloom, immediately picking out the dark forms of the three enchantresses as they scurried about the room, back in their shapeless hag forms. He stared as they rushed back and forth to the cauldron in the center of the floor, pouring and tipping strange ingredients at a fantastic rate. Orddu and Orwen were giggling and singing happily the whole while, as Orgoch hurried grimly and silently along.

"I – " Gwydion began, trying to get their attention. He was instantly cut off, however, as Orddu whirled past with a frantic laugh, her tarnished hair ornaments jangling back and forth.

"No time to talk, my chicken! We're really so awfully busy, we really are – and just imagine, Orwen wants me to be Orgoch again! I simply can't stand it!"

"I have a request," Gwydion continued, his voice stronger, keeping his green eyes on Orddu as she hurried along, her hands full of some kind of herb. Realizing a moment later that he was not going to get them to stop no matter what he said, he sighed quietly and then ducked his head, reaching up with one hand and tugging off the chain upon which dangling his emblem of Don – it caught in his skin slightly as he pulled at it, but he did not flinch at the sudden sting. Tugging it out of his hair, he held it out firmly, neither his arm or hand wavering, and asked strongly, "Will you make sure this reaches Caer Dathyl for me?"

A second later it was whisked out of his hand and disappeared amongst the folds of Orwen's cloak as she dashed past him, and he caught a tiny glimpse of her bright blue eyes shining. "Of course we will, my dear little gosling!" a high-pitched voice sang out of the melee. "It's been so long since I've been in Caer Dathyl! And just think, we'll get to see King Math when we give it to him!"

"Oh, good!" another voice chimed in. "Of course, we wouldn't want the dear king to worry about his son. We'll give it to him, never fear!"

"I never get to go to Caer Dathyl," Orgoch's unmistakable voice grouched. "Orddu is always the one to go."

"All right, all right! We'll all go, you silly thing. Ah, Caer Dathyl in the summer! Have a safe journey, you dear little sparrow, but do watch out for the Huntsmen… oh my! Where did he go?"

* * *

The day passed slowly and wearily for Achren, as her human servants spent most of their time quailing before the Cauldron-born, the Cauldron-born spent all their time standing as silent and grim sentinels among the trees, and Achren herself sat in her tent, seething with angry feelings and plots for vengeance against Arawn. She mentally discarded several plans at once – namely, taking Annuvin again by force, as she no longer had the authority over the Huntsmen or the Cauldron-born that she needed, and a human army, she knew, would be useless against the stronghold of Annuvin.

The hours passed wearily in this fashion, as she became more and more frustrated and restless in her tent, already feeling dirty and cold despite her relaxing swim in the morning. The Forest of Idris seemed to be pressing in on her from all sides through the tents walls, although she knew of no place to go outside of the forest other than going back to Annuvin to beg Arawn for forgiveness or traveling to Caer Dathyl to beg for mercy from the Sons of Don, both of which she knew were not real options at all. The only course for her, therefore, was to eke out a deprived and morose existence drifting about Prydain until she could win some powerful lord into her favor, either by physical seduction or the promise of riches beyond anything he could dream or imagine. Not that she thought that would take long, for despite the change in her hair she knew she was still ethereally beautiful – but the mere thought of it was horrifying to someone like her, who had lived her entire life as a queen and mistress of a powerful land.

Towards dark she finally arose from her pile of furs and stepped out of the tent and headed determinedly into the woods, ignoring the hungry stares of some of the more lustful among her human guards, trying to find the same spot where she had cast the spell for the pool earlier that day, wanting to experience again the same tranquility she had felt during the dawn hours. She arrived there in a few moments and stood staring at the spot where the water had been, willing there to be the same beauty again. But when the water did spring forth as she ordered it, it was dull and brackish – half-rotten leaves swirled within it, and the trees on either side of Achren pressed in on her, their branches black and threatening in the cloying heat of the dusk.

Letting out a harsh scream of frustration, Achren brought her hands up sharply as the water disappeared, replaced by a sudden swirl of crimson fires which lapped at the tree roots around it but did not sear them, which let off a fierce heat but did not burn Achren's skin as she stood in the midst of it. Out of the flames, coaxed by Achren's elegant fingers, danced little mad figures and flecks of pure white light, which came flashing up and fell back down, creating a whirling dervish of light and heat. Achren felt the heat and light illuminating her face and smiled half-happily, half-manically as she closed her eyes and reveled in the shriek of the fire, a sound that only she could hear as she stood revolving in the flames, totally oblivious to the world around her and therefore not noticing the hoofbeats which were pounding steadily closer.

* * *

Gwydion had managed to find his way out of the marshes and partway into the Forest of Idris without meeting another creature as the sun rose higher and swung its way into the afternoon, his eyes sharp and ever waiting to catch any sign of danger. Melyngar trotted gamely and quietly forward, her hooves making barely a sound even among the dead leaves and braches littering the floor of the forest, as Gwydion considered his options.

It was immediately apparent to him that he could not try to head straight back to Caer Dathyl, for the Huntsmen and all other manner of Arawn's minions would be waiting for him – that was why he had asked the enchantresses of Morva to make sure his father Math received his emblem, as a promise that he was still alive, for it would take him a very long time to get home. Gwydion was taking a risk even approaching Idris because of its proximity to the Dark Gate, but he had reasoned that his enemies would never have believed he would step into the jaws of his captor like that. Now he was trying to figure out a way to make his way west without being captured, reasoning that he could hide among the Folk of the Free Commots, of whom he had heard but to which he had never traveled.

His thoughts were cut of suddenly, however, as a dark figure appeared like a shadow further up the forest path, its hunching attitude and manic growls revealing it instantly to be a Huntsman. Melyngar whinnied in alarm as Gwydion brought her to a plunging halt and Gwydion drew his sword with a loud curse, frantically searching the trees around him to see if there were more. To his horror, two more Huntsmen were closing in on him from his right, uttering animal howls, their swords and daggers gleaming in the light of the dying sun. With a shout, Gwydion wheeled Melyngar around to his right and kicked her hard with his heels, urging her into a frenzied gallop through the trees themselves, feeling their branches cutting at him from all sides. He heard the Huntsmen gleefully following, panting and screeching like the beasts whose skins they wore.

A few minutes later Gwydion glanced back, a small branch cutting his cheek and leaving a thin line of blood, and saw, aghast, that the Huntsmen were barely feet behind them and one was actually reaching out to grasp Melyngar's tail. The mare whinnied in fear as she felt the creature's grasp on her, her hooves plunging ahead still faster, creating a great crashing noise through the undergrowth. Another Huntsman edged ahead of his comrade, his face twisted in a horrible grimace, and managed to slash with his sword at Gwydion's leg, cutting only slightly into Gwydion's leg, but, more dangerously, slicing straight through the strap of Gwydion's saddle.

The prince barely had time to register the pain in his leg before he felt the lurch in his seat and then he was falling off of Melyngar's back in a great shower of fallen leaves and leather, crashing into the trunk of an oak tree as he fell. Melyngar still cantered on, fetching up against the roots of a tall cedar, as Gwydion looked up through a brown haze – he must have hit his head when he fell – and waited for the Huntsman to fall on him, sure that he was about to die.

However, to his utter astonishment, he merely saw that the Huntsman was standing a few feet away but not moving, his sword upraised as he stood trembling slightly. It was a moment before Gwydion's scattered mind realized that, in an extraordinary example of how animal-like the poor creature had become, he was actually smelling the air, sniffing with great gasps, the black eyes rolling back and forth. The prince, seeing that the other Huntsmen were also standing stock still behind their fellow and reasoning that they somehow were not going to kill him, decided to take advantage of the situation. And with that thought, he rose to his feet as quickly as he could and coldly plunged his sword straight into the chest of the Huntsman, whose mouth opened in a silent shriek as he died.

Gwydion gasped with the pain in his head as it swam in circles and the Huntsman dropped to the ground, gritting his teeth through the pain and focusing his eyes towards where the other Huntsmen were supposed to be – but to his astonishment, they had vanished. Melyngar walked delicately up to Gwydion's side as he stood in numbed silence, his blood-stained sword hanging by his side, mirroring the color of the blood running down his leg. A moment later, still unsure of his actions, Gwydion turned and looked into the forest, searching for what in Prydain would make creatures like the Huntsmen turn back, and saw a bright red light glowing through the trees.

He took a few unsteady steps, not bothering to sheathe his sword, drawn to the glowing scarlet as a moth to a flame, as Melyngar followed nervously behind him, champing at her bit. Gwydion fancied in his torpid state that the very air around him suddenly seemed sweet, smelling of beauty itself. Before he knew it, he was standing at the edge of a small hollow and gazing into a pool of shimmering flame where figures where dancing and burning, and in the midst of the flames stood a woman.

He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that she must have been an enchantress to stand in the middle of flames and be unburned, but all thoughts of magic flew from his head as he gazed upon her beauty, taking in the richness of her unusually colored hair and her pale skin, the blue of her robe seeming enhanced rather than overwhelmed by the scarlet surrounding her. Gwydion thought later that he must have said something, for she suddenly turned to him and opened her black eyes, and the fire vanished as suddenly as a dream. And yet even in the darkness of the forest, the rising moon cast down beams of white light down through the trees, glinting off of her hair.

Achren stared at him, taken unawares by the young man's sudden appearance. All her senses stretched, she felt no other presence near her in the forest but him, and so relaxed, assured of her safety, and felt free to appraise him. He was young and strong, and Achren could tell from his strong stance that he was confident in himself, not showing any weakness despite the blood she could see winding down his leg, from a very recent wound. His green eyes were bright as he looked at her, and Achren felt a rising warmth as she came to the conclusion that he was one of the most handsome men she had ever had the opportunity to seduce, which was exactly what she was planning to do.

She smiled as she stepped closer to him, out of the moonlight but still retaining through her magic a strange light of shining beauty. Her voice when she spoke was low and alluring. "Greetings, my lord," she whispered.

Gwydion tried to respond, but for some reason could not find his voice. All thoughts of speaking vanished when she reached out one pale hand and touched his own, sending a thrill through him. She smiled, her teeth white and pure, and he found himself dropping his sword and stepping closer to her despite the intuition jumping through his mind that she was dangerous, and then they were walking together, hand in hand, as the shape of a tent loomed out of the dark. He did not hear Melyngar's frightened call behind him as he stood before her, consumed with the thought and scent of only her.

Achren smiled at the childish simplicity of it as they stood together in her tent, marveling somewhat at how easy it was to tempt the basic instincts of men. And yet his silence was unnerving her somehow, making her realize that she had not taken a man for her own pleasure and not for political manipulations in a very long time. The young man standing before her stared at her with eyes that seemed far too wise for his years, and despite herself she could not quash a feeling of strange tenderness that she would not have thought herself capable of as she leaned forward and kissed the hollow of his throat gently, feeling his large hands come up to grasp her shoulders in a firm but tender grip.

The time following that moment seemed a very short whirlwind to the both of them, and Achren was half-asleep, half-awake in the furs next to him as she saw the grey of dawn creeping in through a gap in the tent's opening. He was awake, leaning on his elbow and looking down at her, one hand on her waist. One of the first things she had done was release his hair from its restraining band, and now it cascaded about his face, hiding it from her view. She felt very warm and tired as he quietly asked, "What is your name?"

If she had been more conscious of her actions, she would have kept her mouth shut and left him to wonder, becoming more her slave each moment, but, her half-open eyes filled with an emotion that others might have thought was love, she murmured, "Achren."

Her eyes closed then, so she did not see how his body instantly stilled and the muscles in his shoulders tensed faster than a flying arrow. A few moments later, already slipping into sleep, she sensed him moving, silently sitting up, and the rustle of clothing, although she did not rouse herself because she never thought that he would leave. A minute later, however, an answering whisper floated into her ears from the flap of the tent, where, inexplicably, a chill wind was suddenly entering.

"My name is Gwydion."

She sat up so fast that she thought she would fly out of the tent, but it was not fast enough. Already she could hear the shouts of the guards outside as a cascade of hooves galloped through their midst and faded into the distance, and she did not hear Gwydion's exclamation of horror as he discovered the presence of the Cauldron-born because she was already shrieking to the guards to take him, to capture him. By the time she emerged from the tent in a thin shift, screaming like some wild thing, he was gone, his mare charging off into the dawn mist. She gave a strident order to the Cauldron-born, something about hunting him down, before she staggered back into her tent and collapsed back onto the furs, her head aching and her body shaking with despairing sobs.

* * *

**Well, there you have it! Finally! Once again, I can't apologize enough for all this delay. I'm back for good, and you can hold me to that. I hope you guys enjoyed it – I certainly enjoyed writing it!**


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